ROBERT  OF 
WOODLEIGH 


,'  K; 


:;rri!Kii  POEMS 


ILIP   SIGNER 


ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH 


AND 


Other    Poems. 


BY 


PHILIP  STOKEK. 


NEW  YORK: 

JAMES    MILLER,     PUBLISHER, 
647    BROADWAY. 

1872. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1872,  by 

JAMES  MILLER, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


LANGK,  LITTLE  &   HILLHAN, 

PRINTKHS, 
108  to  114  WOOSTBB  ST.,  N.  Y. 


TO    MY   FRIEND, 


E.     A.     SOTIIEKN,    ESQ., 


THIS  VOLUME  IS  INSCRIBED 


171 0220 


PROEMIAL. 


WHEN   poesy  first   woke   within   my  breast, 
Its  gentle  murmur  left  a  vague  unrest : 

A  passion  grew   upon   me*  day  by  day — 
A   yearning   after   something  far  away. 


Oft,  ere   these  numbers  rude  were  rudely  trac'd, 
I   wrote  a  name  on  high  —  'twas   e'er  eifac'd  ! 

The   boon   I   crav'd,  I  deem'd  the  world  denied, 

And  in  the  bitterness  of  soul  I   cried: 

» 

"Must   pen  be  dipt  in   flame   to   write  a  name 
Eternally  upon   the   scroll   of  Fame  ? 


6  PROEMIAL. 

I'd   better   be  a  lout  with  obscure   name, 
And   plod   through   life   with   unimpassion'd   soul, 
Than   have   this   constant   longing   after   fame, 
Tet   coming  none  the  nearer   to   the  goal. 

I'd  better  have  my  life  a   simple   story; 

I'd  better  be  the  lowest  of  the  lowly, 

Than   have   this   eager,   burning   thirst   for   glory, 

And   see   it   nearing  not  at   all,   or   slowly." 

This  truth  I  've  learn'd :  "  Than  never,  better  late." 
There  are  no  fairer  words  than   "Work  and  wait." 

If  in   these  pages   aught   you   find   to   blame — 
Where   numbers  halt,   or   feebly  burns   the  flame, 
Be  generous,   and   censure   light   the  part; 
Pray,   deem  it   Lack   of  genius,    more   than  heart. 

YOKK  CITY,  January,  1872. 


CONTENTS. 


KOBEKT  OF  WOODLEIGH: 

PAGE 

PAKT  I. — EXILED 11 

1— L'Allegra.  (Joy) 13 

2— The  Eeaper's  Song 16 

3 — Glee  of  Harvest-Singers 20 

PART  II.— IN  CAMP 23 

1— The  Sentry's  Song 29 

PART  III.— THE  RETURN 33 

1 — La  Pensierosa.  (Sadness) 34 

UNDER  THE   SNOW 45 

POEMS  OF   MEMORY: 

The  Old  Bible 63 

A  Remembrance 66 

Little  Ben 68 

Gold-Brown  Hair 71 

Woodbine 73 

I've  Something  to  Tell 76 

A  Reminiscence  of  Youth 78 

The  Southern  Maid's  Lament.          .  SO 


8  CONTENTS.      . 

PAOE 

Dreaming 82 

An  Autumn  Storm 84 

Withered  Violets  87 

A  Morning  Ramble 89 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS: 

The  Doomed  City 94 

We've  Gone  Thro'  Life  Together...   96 

Never  Despair 98 

A  Summer  Rhyme 100 

Odd  Joe,  the  Organ-Grinder 103 

Magdalene,  A  Sequel  to  "  Odd  Joe"..  107 
Smithsonian  Park  in  Spring-time. . .  110 

Waiting  for  Another  Kiss 114 

A  Quandary 1171 

Skating  Pleasures 120 

Is  it  Wrong  to  Kiss? 122 

Modern  Wedding-Rites 124 

A  Child's  Logic 126 

After  the  Play 127 

THE  FEVER  DREAM: 

Prologue 130 

The  Dream.— Cupid's  Folly 131 


ROBERT   OF  WOODLEIGH. 


EGBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH. 


A    POEM. 

THREE    PARTS. 


PART    I. 

EXILED. 

DEEP  in   the  bosom   of  Virginia  hills 

There  lay  a   tiny  lake,  whose   placid  breast, 

Surrounded  by  a  panoply  of  pines, 

"Was  ruffled  never  by  the   ruder  blasts 

Which,  ever   and   anon,  swept   o'er   the'  heights. 

Toward   the  north,  upon   a   single  hill, 

Above   the   crests   of  evergreen,  arose 

The   Convent's   ivied  walls   and   turrets   gray ; 

Toward   the  west    the  grim,  dark   forest   lay 

Upon   a   thousand  wave-like   mountain-tops. 


12  EGBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH. 

The  waters  of  the  eastern  border  bathed 

The  rocky  feet   of  overhanging   cliffs, 

Whose  haughty  summits   pierced   the  very  sky, 

And   frown'd  'their  shadows   on   the   glassy  lake  ; 

"While  to   the  south,  upon   a   green,  which   sloped 

Toward  the  lake,  the  front   of  "Woodleigh   Hall 

"Was   dimly  seen   amid   a  grove   of  pines. 

Beyond,  a  valley,  rich   in  growing  grain, 

And   rip'ning  fruit,  and   fields   of  pasture   rare, 

And  bubbling  springs,  and  silver  rivulets, 

In  all   the   beauty  of  an  Eden  lay. 

At  "Woodleigh  dwelt  Judge  Leeson  and  his  sons — 
Robert,  the  eldest,  tall,  and  dark,  and  proud  ; 
And  Maurice,  fair,  and   slight,  and   delicate  ; 
And  though  the  Judge  was  father   to  them  both, 
They  yet  were  not  full   brothers.      Either  claim'd 
A   mother  for  himself — both  now  in  Heav'n. 

At  "Woodleigh,  with  the  Leesons,  liv'd  a  maid — 

A  kinswoman   of  Leeson's  latest  wife. 

And  she  was  very  fair  to   look   upon; 

And  both  the  sons  loved  her;  and  she  loved  both, 


ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH.  13 

And   could  not   choose  which   brother  pleas'd    her 

most. 

For  she  was  fond   of  praise — as  who   is  not  ? — 
And   either  by  her  side,  the  other  gone, 
She   deem'd  the  present  lord   of  all  her  heart. 
And  life  was   in   its   Spring,  and   love  was  young, 
And  love  made   all  her  heart   a  joyous  song. 


L'ALLEGRA. 

(Joy.} 

"  ALL   nature   sweetly  smiles   around ; 

In   all   the   air  is   heard   the  hum 
Of  joyous   life,  and  from   the   ground 

The  flowers  tell  that   Spring  has   come. 
The   swallow  gossips   in   the   sky, 

The   humming  bee   is   on   the  wing, 
And  gentle   breezes,  drifting  by, 

From   southern   climes   sweet   odors   bring. 

"The  wood   resounds  with   song   of  birds, 
The   brook   is   singing   in   the  vale ; 


14 

And   tinkling  bells   of  browsing  herds 
Are   echoed  back  from  hill   and   dale. 

The  apple-blossoms  lightly  dance, 

The   meads   are   spangled   o'er  with  dew; 

And,  rev'ling  in  the   sun's  bright  glance, 
The   cloudlets  play  in  fields   of  blue. 

"My  heart  is  like  the  sweet  spring-time — 

Upon  a  golden  flood  I   drift; 
For  youth   and  hope   are  in   their  prime, 

And  love  makes  youthful  blood  run   swift. 
No   cloud  obscures  my  future   sky, 

My  sails  are  blown  by  zephyrs   sweet; 
A  fairy-land   is  flitting  by, 

And  love   sits,  smiling,  at  my  feet." 

Now  Maurice  linger'd  ever  by  her  side, 

And  prais'd  her   azure   eyes,  and  golden  hair; 

But   Robert   kept  his  passion  in   his  heart, 

For  he  was  proud,  and  would  not  bring  himself 

To  speak — though  love  betray'd  him  thro'  his  eyes. 

And  Rodney   Gray — for  he  was  Robert's  friend — 

Oft  counsel'd  Robert   to   reveal   his  love. 


ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH.  15 

And  learn  her  heart ;  that  if  she   loved  him  not, 

Another  he  might   seek  to  be   his  wife. 

But   Robert — for  he  loved   her — answer'd  "Wait!" 


But   Amy  Winthrope,  after  many  days, 
Began   to  weary  of  the  younger  son; 
For  he  was   ever  with  her,  pressing  her 
To  listen  to   his  plea  and  be  his  wife. 
And  often  when  the  time   dragg'd  heavily — 
For,  being  gently  rear'd,  her  idle   hours 
Were  many — would   she   steal   away  alone, 
To  wander   o'er  the  farm. 

One   spot   she   loved — 

A   rising  knoll,  which   might   have   been    a  wave 
Left   by  the   Flood,  so   gently   did   it  slope. 
Upon   the  left  a   path   crept   to  its  foot, 
And  mingled  with   the  wide   and   dusty  road, 
Which,  like   a   serpent,  wound   among   the   hills. 
Upon   the   right  broad   fields   of  waving  grain 
Lay  rip'ning  in   the   sun.     And  here,  beneath 
The   shade   of  overhanging  vines,  she   loved 
To   dream   away  the   drowsy  summer-hours. 


16  EGBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH. 

Until  the   sun  fell   slowly  down   the  west, 

And   daylight  waned,  and   night   came   on   apace. 

It   chanc'd  that   when   the  grain   was   fully  ripe, 
Reclining  on  the   slope,  she  watch'd   the   men, 
"With  sun  brown'd   faces,  reaping  in   the  fields. 
And  Robert   Leeson  reap'd  among   the  men, 
For  since  his  sire  had   grown   in   years,  the  care 
And  burden  of  the   farm  had   fall'n    to   him; 
And   though   too   proud  to   speak  his  dearest  wish 
To   one  he  fear'd  would  spurn  his  proffer'd   love, 
He  deem'd   not  honest  toil   a   want   of  pride. 
And  as  he  walk'd  with  measur'd  tread,  and  reap'd 
The  grain,  he  humm'd  a  plaintive  air;  which,  caught 
Upon   the   breeze,  was  wafted   to    the   hill. 


THE    REAPER'S    SONG. 

"COME  hither,  gentle   summer-breeze, 

And  list  to  what   I   say; 
The   sun   is   hot,  the   hours   are   long, 

My  heart  is   sad  to-day. 


17 

"Come   hither,   gentle   summer-breeze. 

And   cool   my   burning   brow, 
And   whisper   softly    in    my   ear 

If  Amy  loves   me   now. 

"  Go,   seek   her  in   her   lone   retreat ; 

Hide  in   her  golden    hair, 
And   learn   her  heart :    if  vacant  still, 

Oh !    breathe   my   image   there. 

"  Or,   haste   away   to    Cupid's   bower, 

And   bid   him   lend   a   dart, 
And   dip  't   in   violets'   perfume, 

And   strike   it   in   her   heart. 

"  Oh  !    hasten,   gentle   summer-breeze  ; 

Now,   heed    thee   what   I   say  : 
The   snn    is  hot,    the   hours   are   long, 

My  heart   is   sad   to-day." 

Now   Amy   saw   that   he   was   strong   and   lithe — 
The   fairest   reaper  in   the   harvest-field ; 
And   as   she   watch'd  his   form    bend    gracefully, 
And   heard   his   song,    her   bosom   rose   and   fell 
Like   waving   meadow-grass   in    summer-time, 


18  ROBERT  OF  WOODLE1GH. 

And   then   she   knew   that   he   had   all   her   heart. 
And   long  she   mused,  as  in   a   waking   dream, 
Nor  moved   until   the   reapers   homeward    turn'd. 
And   slowly   fell   the   sun   behind   the   hills, 
And  daylight  waned,  and  darkness  fill'd   the  land. 

Still  Robert's  love   spoke   only   from   his   eyes; 
But  when  he  saw   that  Amy   seem'd  to   watch 
His   coming  home   at   eve,   and   crimson   flush'd, 
If  e'er  he   took  her  hand   or   spoke  her  name3 
New   courage   quickly   sprung   within   his   heart, 
And   once   again   he   counsel'd   with  his   friend. 
Now   Rodney   Gray  had   come  to   say   farewell. 
The   captain    of  a   foreign   ship   had   come 
To   be   his   father's   guest,   and    Rodney   pleas'd 
The   captain,   that   he   proffer'd   him   a   place 
Upon   his   ship,   and   opportunity 
To   cross   the    sea   and   visit    foreign   climes. 
And   Rodney's   father,   loth   to   lose  his   son, 
Had  but    consented    after   many   prayers. 
And   now   he'd   come   to   bid   his   friend   farewell, 
And   urg'd    him,   if  he   held   his   pleasure   aught, 
To    speak    his    love   and   Amy   take   to    wife, 
That   when   his   friend   was   far   across    the   sea 


ROBERT  OF  WOODLETGH.  19 

He   still    might   have   a   friend    as   dear   as   he. 
Then    Robert   promis'd,    when    the   harvest-work 
Was   done,  to   give   his  heart  and   plead  for  her's. 
So   Rodney   bade   farewell   and    went   his   way. 

Yet   still  his   plea   the    younger    brother   pled ; 
And   when   the   harvest-sheaves   were   gather'd    in, 
And   all   the   implements   of  toil   laid    by, 
And   Woodleigh    rang   with    shouts   of   mirth, 
He   drew  her  from   among   the   merry   guests, 
And    lured  her   on,  with   soft  and  honey'd  speech, 
Across   the   slope,  and   thro'    the   moonlit  wood, 
And   halted   on   the   summit    of  the   cliff 
Which    overhung   the   lake,   and   sued   again 
With   all    the   fervor   of  his   ardent   tongue, 
And    laughing,    vowed   if  she   his   passion   spurn'd, 
To   cast  himself  into    the   lake   below. 
And   from    the   distant   vale   the   harvest-glee 
Was  faintly   borne — a   joyous   melody. 


20  ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH. 


GLEE   OF  HARVEST-SINGERS. 

* '  THE  summer  sun   is   down    the  west ; 

The   barley,  wheat,  and   clover 
Are   gathered   in.     From   toil  we   rest — 

The   harvest-days  are   over. 

"The  moon   is   up,  the   stars   are   out, 

The   dew  is   slowly  falling; 
O'er  hill   and   dale,  with   merry  shout, 

Our   joyful   hearts   are   calling. 

"While   lovers  wander — youth   and   maid — 

Away  alone   together, 
To   seek   the   sweet   secluded  shade 

Of  mountain-vine,  or  heather, 

"  We  wander   on  from   home   to   home, 
Both   cot   and   mansion   greeting, 

The   mountain-echo,  as  we   roam, 
Our   Harvest-song  repeating." 


ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIOH.  21 

ISTow  Robert   saw  the  twain   desert   the  Hall, 
And  through  his  breast  shot  pangs  of  jealous  rage ; 
He  follow'd,  hidden  by  the  veil   of  night, 
And   crouch'd   behind   a   tree   upon   the   cliff; 
But  when   that   foolish  vow  was   said,  he   rose, 
And  stood   a   spectre   in   the  clear  moonlight. 
One  glance   of  jealous   hate  he  cast,  then   spoke. 
"Poor  fool!"     "A  listener!"   the  other   said— 
"  You've  leave  to   call  me   so,  you  baby-fool !" 


Then    heated  words    led    on   to   bitter  oaths, 
Till   Maurice,  roused,  in   angry  passion   said, 
"  'T  were  better  far  to   be  the  fool   you  think 
Than  that  you  here  have  proved  yourself — a  spy!" 
The    elder  brother  closed  his   hand   in   rage, 
And  struck  it  madly  in    the  other's   face, 
And   dash'd  him  headlong  down  the   precipice! 
One   shriek  of  mingl'd   fright    and   baffl'd    rage 
Ascended    from   the  water's  ruffl'd  breast, 
And  then  the    startl'd  waves   resum'd   their    calm, 
And  circling   ripples  widen'd   into   naught, 
Unheedful  of  the    struggling   life    beneath. 


22  EGBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH. 

Ah!  then  the  brother  would  a  world  have  giv'n 
Could   he  recall   that    rash    and    dreadful    deed ! 
His  anger  quickly  chang'd   to  wildest    grief. 
He  loath'd  the  fainting   maiden  at  his  feet, 
And   imprecations  heap'd  on  her — the    cause. 
The   moon   conceal' d  her  face  behind   a   cloud, 
And,  to  'his  ear,  the   zyphyrs  seem'd   a  shriek ; 
And  with   a  fearful  word   upon   his   lips, 
One   frighten'd   glance  he   cast   behind,  and   fled ! 

Across   the   lake   the   Convent   bells   rang   out 
A   requiem    upon    the   silent   air, 
And  far   away  the   Harvest-Singers'    glee 
Was   faintly   heard — a    mournful  melody. 


PART    II. 


IN  CAMP. 

A  THREATENING  cloud   had  gathered  in   the   sky, 
The   gloom   of  war  was   hanging  o'er  the  land ; 
The  deepest  woe   a  nation's   heart   could   feel — 
Its   life-blood   threaten'd   by  its   children's   hands — 
Had   fall'n   like   early  frost  among   the   flow'rs. 
A    nation   stood   array'd   against   itself, 
And   treason's  banner  flaunted   to   the   breeze. 
The   cannon's   throat    grew   hoarse   with   shouts   of 

death, 

And  deadly  instruments   of  war   loud   clash'd, 
And   shrieks,  and  groans,  and  curses   rent   the  air, 
Arid  warriors   slain  were   piled   in   hecatombs, 


24  ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH. 

And  thick,  black  clouds  of  smoke  arose  and  hung 
Between  the  Earth  and  Heav'n,  to  keep  the  stench 
Of  war  from  Heaven's  nostrils. 

Night   had   come. 

The   battle  had  been   fought   and  dearly  won, 
And   all  was   silent   in   the  G'rilla   camp, 
Save,  now  and  then,  the  stamp  or  neigh  of  steed, 
Or  groan   of  battle-stricken   warrior. 
To   smould'ring  embers   had    the  watch-fires   burnt, 
When   from   the   distant   hill   a   bugle-call 
Arous'd   the   sentry  from   his   drowsy  muse ; 
And    "  "Who    goes    there  ? "    was    borne    upon    the 

breeze, 

And  answer'd  back,  "  A  friend.     A  prisoner 
We  bring  unto   the   chief — a   spy,  we   think." 
A   guard  was   summon'd,  and   the   prisoner 
In   close  confinement   plac'd   until   the   morn. 

The  sun   began  to   streak   the   eastern   sky 
In   gold   and   red,  and   birds   their   matins   sung 
As   cheerily  as   though   no   curse   of  war 
Had   ever  swept  a   nation   to   its   death. 


ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH.  25 

The   morning   drum   and   bugle  woke   the   troops, 
And   call'd   them   from   their   tents. 


The   Captain   rose 

And   summon'd   all   his   chiefest  warriors, 
And   form'd   a   council,  and   advisement   took 
Concerning  him  who,  at   the   midnight   hour, 
Was  brought  a   captive  bound  into   the   camp. 


Then    those    were    call'd    who    had    surpris'd    the 

man, 

"Who   made   averment   'gainst   him   for  a   spy, 
Relating  how   they  found  him   near  the   camp, 
Who,  when   surpris'd,  had   sought   to   make   away, 
And   how,  when   apprehended,  he   had  fought 
So   mightily,  they  were   constrain'd   to   bind 
His   arms,  lest  he   should   take   the  life   of  one ; 
And   how  upon   his  person   they  had   found 
A   paper,  which  they,  being  men   unlearn'd, 
Could   not   divine.       The  paper  being   shown, 

A   passport  from   the   Northern    Army  prov'd. 

2 


26  ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIOH. 

The  witnesses   dismiss'd,  the   Council  held 
A  consultation,  and   declar'd   the   spy, 
By  rigid  rule   of  war,  should  die. 

The  prisoner  was  brought  to  hear  his   doom ; 
And  when  before  his   arbiters  he   stood, 
And   saw  for  him   no   glance   of   sympathy, 
And  knew  that   death  would   be  his   certain   fate, 
He  trembl'd   not,  but   stood   erect   and  proud ; 
And   no   defence  he  made,  nor  pled  for  life. 
Then  said  the  chieftain,  "  Have  you  naught  to  say  ? 
You    have    been    judg'd    a    spy,   and    know  your 

doom. 

Yet,  join  our  band,   and  life   to  you   is   spar'd." 
A  glance  of  scorn  he  threw  at  him   who   spoke, 
And    said :     "  I    have    been    judg'd    a    spy  ?       By 

whom  ? 

"Not  by   my   peers,   for   they   are   loyal   men, 
And  such,   beside  myself,   I   see   not  here. 
If  warring  'gainst   my   country's   enemies, 
And  battling  for  the  honor'd   Stars  and  Stripes — 
The  proudest   flag  that  floats  upon  the  breeze — 
Deserves  the  shameful  death  you've  mark'd  for  me, 


ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH.  27 

Then   be  it   so.       And   yet   I   am   no   spy  ; 

Chance  threw  me  in  your  way.      But  no  ;  I  scorn 

To  ask   one   hour  of  life   from  such   as   you  ! 

And   though   you   hold   my   life   at   beck   or   nod, 

I   tell  you  I   am   proud   to   be  your  foe  ! 

And   if   you   tore   my   heart  from   out   my   breast, 

I   would   defy   you  ;    for   what  patriot 

Deems  not  his   country's  glory  more   than   life  ?" 

A   silence  fell   upon   the  councillors  — 

'Twas  but   the   stillness  that   precedes   the  storm  — 

And   then   a   show'r  of  execrations   fell, 

And   loudly   did   they  clamor  for  his   death. 

The  chief  alone   remain'd  unmov'd   and   calm. 

-  You're   bold,"   he   said.      "  If  you   are,    then,   no 


Pray  tell   us  quickly  who   and   what   you   are  ?" 
His   only  answer   was   a   look   of  scorn. 
"  If  still  you   spurn  our   counsel   to   redeem 
Your    forfeit   life,     we     fain      would    know     your 

name." 

But  sullen,  proud,  defiant  still    he   stood. 
The  chieftain   then,   with   angry  gesture,  said: 


28  ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH. 

"  Your  name,  I   fear,  is   not   an   honor'd   one, 
Else   would   you  never   shame   to   speak   it   here." 
"  Asham'd    to     speak     my    name !       'Tis    Rodney 

Gray !" 

At  mention  of  that   name   the  chieftain   reel'd, 
A  deadly  pallor  spread  upon  his  face, 
And,  feigning  pain,  he   broke   the  council   up, 
With   order  that   the  captive   be  confm'd, 
And   guarded  'gainst   a   more   convenient   hour. 


For  hours  the  night  had  blotted  out   the   sun. 
Again   the  camp  was  wrapt  in  deepest  gloom — 
Such  gloom    as  comes  before  the  coming   moon, 
Who,  still   an   hour  undue,  the   stars  essay'd 
To  light   the   world   until   her  presence   paled 
Their  feeble  gleam.      The  owl  woke  in  the  dell — 
The  only  sound  that   stirr'd   the  slumb'ring   air. 
The   night   was  chill,  and   as   the   sentry  paced, 
With  measur'd,  noiseless  tread,  he  drew  his  cloak 
In   closer  folds  about   his   form,  and  humm'd, 
In   voice   scarce  audible,  a   song  of  home : 


ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH.  29 


THE    SENTRY'S    SONG. 

"  SLEEP,   soldier,   sleep !    and   dream   of  home ! 

Leave  battle- thoughts  for  waking; 
And  in  thy  slumber  lightly  roam 

Where  waves  are  gently  breaking 
Against  a  flower-teeming  land, 

Where  orange-trees  are  blooming, 
And  satin-leav'd  magnolias  stand, 

The   Southern   air  perfuming. 

"  Sleep,  soldier,  sleep !  and  dream  of  love, — 

No   danger   shall   betide   thee, — 
And,  dreaming,  wander   in   a   grove, 

Thy  heart's   dear  choice   beside   thee. 
Or,  dream   the   dawn   of  blessed  peace, 

For  which   all   hearts   are   yearning; 
In   slumber  see   the  battle   cease, 

And   dream    the    home-returning." 

The  sentry  paus'd.     A  sound   of  footsteps   fell 
Upon   his  wakeful  ear.     His   challenge-word 


30  ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH. 

Was  quickly   answer'd   by  his   chieftain's  voice. 
"  I've   come  to   see   the   captive   spy,"  he  said  ; 
"  Unbar  the  door — and  haste — the  night   is   cold  ; 
And  when  I've  pass'd,  walk  yonder---keep  aloof — 
And   on   your  peril   come  you  not  within 
JMy  voice's   easy  range,  save  when   I   call." 
The   soldier  bow'd,  and  turn'd   the  rusty  lock, 
And  went   his  way. 

Within   a   dreary  hut,  r 
But  dimly   lighted   by  a   single   torch, 
Upon   a  bed   of  straw,  lay  Rodney  Gray, 
With  limbs   so   firmly   bound    the   flesh  was   cold ; 
And  in   his   troubl'd   dream   he  heard  his  name, 
And  waking,  saw  a   figure   by  his   side, 
And   thought   it  but  the   phantom   of  his   dream. 
"  Wake,  Rodney  Gray !  I've  come  to  set  you  free !" 
The   figure  stoop'd   and   cut   the  thongs  apart, 
And  when  the  hot   blood  fill'd  the  deaden'd  limbs, 
The  captive  rose,  and  said :  "  Who  are  you,  friend  ? 
Why  come  to    loose  my  limbs,  and  bid   me   hope? 
I  was  resign'd,  and    not    afeard   to   die. 
But    now  that   life   springs   in    my  heart    anew, 
I   fear   I  could   not   die   as   soldiers   should!" 


ROBEET  OF  WOODLEIGH.  31 

"  Fear   not ;  I   have   the   pow'r  to    make   you  free, 
And   so   you    shall   be.     Yet   before  you   go, 
One  word    I   crave — some   tidings    of  my   home. 
If  mem'ry  clings   to   you   as't    does   to    me, 
You  will   remember   in   your   youth   a   friend — 
The    sharer   of  your   sorrows   and   your   sports — 
One   Eobert   Leeson,  heir   of  "Woodleigh   Farm  ?" 
"  I  do    remember   such,"  the   captive   said. 
"  Have   near  ten   years   of  sorrow  made    a    change 
So  great,  you  fail  to  know  me,   Rodney  Gray  ?" 
Not  so!   He  knew  him  then,  and  grasp'd  his  hand, 
And  held  it   long.     And  Robert    Leeson  wept — 
The  first  tears  shed  by  him  for  ten   long  years. 

# 

But  naught  of  Robert's  home  the   captive  knew. 
He,  too,  had   been   a   rover   all   these   years ; 
But   this  he   knew — what   Robert   also   knew — 
That  in   the   Northern  army  Robert's   sire 
A  foremost  leader  was.     And   that  was  all. 

"  Now  hasten,  Rodney   Gray !     The  moon   is  up, 
And   dawn  must   see   you  safe  beyond  tnese  hills ; 
If  here   you  loiter   death   must  be  your  doom." 


32  ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH. 

"  Dear  Robert,  leave  this  life,  and  come  with  me. 
Come,  battle  for  the  dear  old  Flag.  Come  home!" 
"  Come  home !  Nay,  Rodney ;  would  to  God  I 

could ! 

These  hands  are   crimson  with  a  brother's  blood, 
And  never  more   that  home  will  welcome  me !" 
"  Nay,  Robert,  friend  ;    this  night  will   half  atone 
That   deed ;  for  have  you  not   a  brother's  love 
Shown   me? — And  in   the    Calendar   of  Heav'n 
A  brother's  love   stands  next   to   love   of  God." 


The   moon  was  rising   o'er  the   eastern  hills, 
And  silvering   the   tips  of  higher   trees, 
"Who   cast   a   shade   of  gloom   across   the  vale — 
Made   denser   by   the   vapor-cloud   that  rose 
Above   the   ground.     A   pathway  thro'    the   mist 
The  fugitive   enforc'd ;    and  when    the   sun 
Arose  to   chase  the  mists  away,   he    stood, 
A  soldier  free,  within   the   Union    camp. 


PART    III. 


THE    RETURN. 

THE   war  was   ended,  and   the   sim   of  Peace 

Shone   brightly  over  fair  Virginia's   hills. 

At  "Woodleigh  Farm  the  harvest  had  been  reap'd, 

And   all   the  winter-fruit   was  gather'd   in. 

The   storehouse   groan'd   with   overflow  of  corn ; 

For  not   in   many  years   the   farm   had   grown 

So   rich   a   harvest.       Leeson   was   return'd, 

A    hero,   brown'd   by   war   and   battle-scarr'd ; 

Had   doff'd   his   war-apparel,  and   the  plain 

Habiliments  of  peace   resum'd ;   and  all 

"Was   as  it  had    been,  save   the   aching  void 

In   Amy's  breast,   which   never  could  be  fill'd 

While  Robert    came  not. 

2* 


34  EGBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH. 

Ten   long  years   had   wrought 
A  change   in  Arny  scarce   perceptible ; 
Yet   riper   seem'd  her  beauty.       There   are  those 
Who   seem   as  bless'd  with  youth  perennial, 
And   she   was  one  of  these.       As  long  ago 
She  loved   to  roam  the  fields  and  climb  the  hills, 
And  tell   her  heart   in  song,  so   roam'd  she  now ; 
But  sadder  now  her  heart,  and   sad  her  song. 


LA    PENSIEROSA. 
(Sadness.} 

"  THE  distant  wood  is  smoky  blue, 

The   hills  look  through   a  mystic  haze, 
The   valley  turns  a  purple  hue, 

And  mourns   the  fading   summer-days. 
The  leaves  are  whirling  from   the   trees 

Into   the   hollows   of  the   hills, 
The   wail  of  Autumn   fills   the    breeze 

And   mingles  with   complaining   rills. 


ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH.  35 

"  The  cold  November  rain  descends 

Upon   the   meadows,    bare   and   brown ; 
The   bee   his   way  to   shelter  wends, 

For   all   the   flow'rs   are    stricken    down. 
The  birds   to   southern   climes   have   flown, 

The   ghostly   trees   send   forth   a   wail; 
And   gentle   summer-winds   have   grown 

As   chilling   as   a   hand    of  mail. 


"  My   heart   is   like   the   Autumn-time ; 

For   memory   recalls   the   past, 
When   youth    and   hope   were   in   their   prime, 

And  love   made   youthful    blood  run   fast. 
My  heart   bewails   its  summer-day, 

Although    my   lips   refuse   to   tell 
Of  one   so   loved,    now   far   away — 

Too   far   to   hear  love's   dying  knell." 


As  lovers,   parting,   part   reluctantly, 

So   round   the  neck   of  "Winter,    Summer   hung, 

And   supplicated   longer  lease   of  life. 

But   Winter,   as   a   lover   wrong'd   in   love, 


36  ROBERT  OF  WOOD  LEIGH-. 

Grim    satisfaction   feels  in   pow'r   to   scorn, 

With  freezing  breath  her  clinging  fingers  numb'd, 

And   swept   her   from   him    with   an    icy   blast. 

Old   Boreas   unlock'd    his   frosty   chain, 

And   calling   'round   him  all    the  whistling  winds, 

Dash'd   on,  and  blotted   out   the   golden   hues 

Which   Nature's  dreamy  artist   painted  there. 

'Twas   Christmas-eve.     As  night  came  slowly  on, 

A   snowy  carpet  gather'd   o'er  the  fields, 

And   feath'ry  flakes  were   chas'd   by  fitful  winds 

In  whirling  eddies   through   the   leafless   trees. 

Before   a   crackling   blaze  of  hick'ry  logs, 

His   head   bent,  musingly,  upon   his  breast, 

Judge   Leeson   sat.     And   ever   and   anon, 

A   long-pent   sigh   stole   upward  from   his  heart, 

And   'scap'd   half  audibly  between   his   lips* 

And  Amy,   as   she   could  her  presence   spare — 

For  she  prepar'd   the   evening  meal — would   bend, 

And  loving,  press  her  lips  upon  his   cheek, 

And  smooth   the   silver'd   hair  from   off  his  brow. 

The   aged  man  would  bless   her  for  her  love, 

And   sink   again   into   his  former   mood. 


ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH.  37 

Upon  another,  form   the  firelight  glow'd — 
'Twas  one,  whose  fitful  starts,  and  vacant    eyes, 
And   strange   behavior,   told    of   Reason's   flight ; 
And   often  as   the  aged  man  would  look 
Upon   the  harmless   madman's  pensive  face, 
He   sadly   shook  his  head  and  silent  wept. 
And   Amy   watch'd  the   motion  of  his   eyes, 
And   knew  his   grief;    and,   mov'd   to  bitter    tears, 
Knelt  by  his  knee,  and  took    his   hand,  and    said : 
"Dear  Uncle,  I  well  know  your  thoughts  to-night — 
While  other  happy  fathers   have  their    sons, 
You   mourn  your   loss !" 

"Xay,  darling,  do    not  weep; 
'Twas   not   your   fault,"  he   said. 

"It  was  my  fault — 

Oh !    that    I  had  been   exil'd   in    his   stead !" 
The   farmer-soldier  drew  her    to  his  breast, 
And  brush'd  her  golden  hair,  and  sooth'd  her  grief; 
And  when  her  sobs  were  hush'd  a  stillness  reign'd, 
Unbroken   save  by  moaning  winds  without, 
The    crackling   blaze  within,  and   swaying  vines 
Against  the  casement    ticking  drearily. 


38  ROBERT  OF  WOODLE1GH. 

Far    down   the  valley,  battling  with    the   storm, 

A  lonely  trav'ler   made   his  weary  way 

Toward   the  well-known   beacon-light,  which   stair1  d 

The    sloping  hillside  near   a  mile    away. 

"  Home !"   trembl'd     on    the    Exile's    lips ;    "  Dear 

home! 

Once   more  I  near  thee   after   ten   long  years 
Of  weary  wandering.     Dare   I   go   on  ? 
One  glance   may   bring    more   anguish    than   these 

years 

Of  doubt.     Unoccupied   may  be   the  chairs ; 
Strange  faces   may  surround   the   hearthstone  now. 
Ah,  no ;  I   must  go   on — suspense  is   death !" 
The   storm   grew  fiercer,  and   the   blinding   snow 
Dash'd  in  his  face,  as   though   to   drive  him  back. 
Still,  on   he   struggl'd,   up   the   hill,  where  grew 
The  hazel-copses;    and  where   oft,  a   boy, 
He'd  play'd   among  the   green,  low-growing   pines. 
But  when  he   near'd  the  well-remember'd    cliff, 
A    shudder    shook    his    frame.      "  Oh,    God !"    he 

groan'd, 

"  "Would  I'd  been  dash'd  down,  yonder  cliff  instead ! 
Poor   Maurice !  Oh !  it   seems   the   long,  long  years 


ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH.  39 

Of  anguish   and  remorse   I  have   endur'd 
Might  now  atone   for   that   one   heedless   act !" 
A  voice   seem'd  whisp'ring  on   the  winter- wind : 
"  Though  scarlet  be  your  sins,  they  shall  be  made 
AVhite  as  the   snow!" 

"  Oh !    would   it   might  be   so ! 
But    such    a    crime !       My  God !       Cain   bore   his 

mark — 

The   cursed   stain    of  murder — to   the   grave  ! 
This    weight    is    hard    to    bear. —  God    give    me 

strength  !" 
And   so   he   plodded   on. 

The   Hall   loom'd   up 

From   out   the   darkness   as  he  nearer   drew. 
How  like  of  old  it  seem'd !      There  was  the  same 
Familiar   window,  with   its   climbing  vines ; 
The  same  soft  light,  that  gleam'd  out  like  a  star, 
Through   white-fring'd   curtains,   loop'd   in   festoons 

back, 

Above  the  odorous  geraniums ; 
The  same  tall  pines,  now   whistling  in  the  wind  ; 


40  ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH. 

The    same    long    porch,    all    white    with    drifts    of 

snow ; — 
And  he  alone  was  chang'd ! 

A   single  look, 

And  forth   again   in   exile   he   must   go ! 
One   moment   there  he   stood  irresolute, 
Then  from  the  window   drew   the  deaden'd  vines. 
Yes,  there  his  father,  silver-hair'd   and   bow'd, 
But   living   still;    and  Amy   at   his   knee, 
Grown  lovelier  with  lapse  of  years  ;    and   love 
Rose  up,   with   ten-fold  power,   in   his   breast, 
While  gazing  on  that  face  whose  beauty  had, 
Long  years  agone,   allur'd   him  to   the  deed 
That  made  his  after-life   an   agony. 
"  But,    God   of   mercy !      Look !      What   form    is 

that? 

It   cannot   be  ! — My  brother  ! — Do   I  dream  ? 
Dear   God !      If  this   is   madness,    let   me   die !" 
He  tore   the   vines   away,    and   look'd   again — 
He   shriek'd  aloud,   and   thunder'd   at  the  door, 
And    soon    was    clasp'd  upon  his   father's   breast ; 
And   Amy,  wild  with  joy,  held   both  his  hands 
And   wept. 


ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH.  41 

But  Maurice  took  no  heed  of  all. 
"  Dear  Maurice,  give  ine  welcome,"  Robert  said ; 
"  Forgive  the  past,  or  else  my  heart  will  break !" 
Then,  when  he  knew  that  Reason  long  had  flown, 
He  took  his  brother's  hand,  and   call'd   his  name. 
The   madman  started,  raised  his  eyes  and   stared, 
And  held  his  head   in   list'ning  attitude ; 
And  when   the   brother  spoke   again   his  name. 
A   gleam   of  sanity   shot   o'er   his  face, 
A   mighty   weight   was   lifted   from    his   brain, — 
His  mind  was  clear — he  rose,  and  knew  them  all. 

The   aged   man   then   call'd   his   elder  son, 
And   beckon'd  Amy  Winthrope   to   his   side, 
And  plac'd    their    hands   together,   palm   to   palm. 
"  Be  not   afraid   to   take   her  hand,   my   boy ; 
She  loved  you  best,  and   waited  all   these  years." 

The   storm   against  the   casement   flung   the   sleet, 
The   wind   shriek' d   dismally   among  the   pines ; 
But   winter-storm   could   not   disturb   the  joy, 
Nor  mar  the  peaceful  dreams  that  Christmas-eve — 
The   happiest   ever  known   at  AYoodleigh   Farm. 


42  ROBERT  OF  WOODLEIGH. 

So,   Robert's   years   of  penance  now   were   o'er, 
And   Amy's   love   made   life   a   dream    of  joy. 
But   Rodney   Gray  had   fallen   in   the    war ; 
And   Robert   brought  him   to  his   native  home, 
And  rear'd   above  his  head   a   costly   stone, 
And   planted   weeping-willows   at  his   feet. 


UNDER  THE   SNOW 


UNDER  THE  SNOW. 


i. 

DARK  was   the   night,   and   the   rain   fell   fast — 

Swept   down   from   the   yielding  cloud ; 
And   the   storm   came   on   with   a   warning  blast, 

And   the   winds  grew   tierce   and  loud ; 
And   the   snow-banks  melted  and  leaped  in  rills, 
Over  the   rocks   to   the   foot  of  the   hills, 
There   met  in  a  shower  of  spray, 
And   merrily   rippled   away. 

II. 

The  great  pine  fell  from  its  towering  pride, 
Struck  down  by  the  furious  blast ; 

But  the  lone  Red  Inn  by  the  mountain-side, 
Unseen  by  the  storm,  was  passed. 


46  UNDER  THE  SNOW. 

And  the  men  sat  round  in  the  bright,  warm  glow, 
With  never  a  thought  of  the  rain  or  snow, 
And   the  jest  and   the  mirth   rose   high, 
As  the   bottle   and  glass   went   by. 


III. 

The   red   flame   roared   in   the   broad  fire-place, 

With  a  cheerful  and  comforting  glow, 
And    the  warm    light   danced   on    the   clean-swept 

face 

Of  the  solid  brick   hearth   below. 
And  a  fragrance   arose  from   the   black   coffee-pot, 
Which  steamed  on   the  hearth  over  coals  red-hot ; 
And  the  wine-bottles,   grouped  in   the  stalls, 
Quaint   shadows   threw   on   the  gray  walls. 


IV. 

The   stout   oaken   door,   on   its  hinges   of  wood, 
Swung  back   with   a   clattering   sound, 

And  on   the  dark   threshold  a  strange   man  stood, 
Half-timidly  gazing  around. 


UNDER  TEE  SNOW.  4 

And   the   wind   swept  in   at  the  half-ope'd  door, 
And  showered  the  rain-drops  over  the  floor; 
And  the  wine-bottles  clink'd  and  jarr'd, 
Ere  the  door  was  secured  and  barr'd. 


Y. 

The  stranger  was  feeble,   and  old,  and  lean, 

And  his   coat  was  faded  and  worn; 
His  jacket  and   trowsers  and  shoes  were   mean, 

And  his  hat  was   dingy  and  torn. 
And  the  rain  dripp'd  down  from  his  coat  to  the 

floor, 

As,  timid   and  shivering,  he  stood  by  the  door, 
And,   bending  his  uncovered  head. 
In  a  faltering  tone  he  said : 


YI. 

"  Good-evening,  sirs.      Do   I  intrude  ? 

I'd  like  to    warm   me,  if  I  might. 
I  may  ?      I  thank  you.       True  for  you, 

It  is  indeed  a  stormy  night ; 


48  UNDER  THE  SNOW. 

And   I   have   braved   the   storm   since   dawn. 

"What  ? — weary  ?      Yes,  I  'm    sorely  worn ; 
Indeed,   I've   traveled   far  to-day — 

!Near  thirty  miles   I've   walked  since  morn. 

VII. 
"  You   need  not  laugh,  young  man !     I   know 

My  clothes   are  worn  with   age   and   mould. 
But  let   me   tell   you,  gentlemen, 

It's  'grief,  not  age,  that   makes   me   old  ! 
My  life  has  been   a  sad   one,  sirs. 

I  was   not  born   like   this  to   roam, 
Begging  for  bread  from   door  to  door— 

I  once,  like  you,  had  friends   and  home. 

Tin. 

"  You'd  like  to   hear  my  story  ?     No ! 

'T would   make  me  sad — I'm   sure   it  would. 
And  yet  you've  got   me   talking  now, 

The   tale   may  yield — God  knows — some  good. 
Take   something  warm  ?    No,  no !   ISTot   I ! 

You'll   know  the  reason  why,  my  friend, 
Before   one   half  my  story's   told. 

I   thank  you — hope   I   don't   offend. 


UNDER  THE  SNOW.  49 

IX. 

"  I'll  warm    before    the   tire,  sir — 

The  winter  warmth  which    God   has   sent. 
What,     sir  ?     Oh,  yes  ;    He   gave   the  wine  ; 

But   for  our  wholesome   use   'twas   meant. 
Don't   think  I'm   lecturing,  my  friends; 

Oh,  no  ;     I'm    but   a  worthless   man — 
Sir,  if  I   might   a  favor   ask  : 

A   draught   from   yonder   coffee-can. 

X. 

"  I   thank   you.     That's   refreshing,  sir ! 

I've  known   such   friendliness   as   this 
But  seldom   late   years.     Ah!  the   past 

Has   been  more   misery  than   bliss. 
Yet,  I   a   dear  home   once   possess'd — 

A   cottage   'neath   a  sloping  hill, 
Where  just   before   the   garden-gate 

A  foot-plank   crossed   a  rippling  rill. 


"  A   chestnut  tree,  with  swinging   boughs, 
Grew  just   beyond   the  little   cot, 


50  UNDER  THE  SNOW. 

And   from   its   roots  a   shell-path   ran 
Between   two   beds   of  '  Touch-me-not ;.' 

And   creeping  vines  grew  on  the   roof, 
And  trailed  along  the  portico; 

And  honeysuckles   climbed   the   door, 
And  rose-trees  swept   the  stoop  below. 

XII. 

"A   deep  brook  turned   a   drooning  mill — 

A   tall  red   mill  with  gabled  front — 
Half  hid  by  willow-trees,  who   stood 

Protection   from   the   Storm-king's  brant. 
The  granite  wheels   that   crashed   the  grain 

"With  lightning  whirl   and   constant   moan, 
The  huge  revolving  circle,  sped 

By  water's  weight,  were  all   my  own. 

XIII. 

"I  had  a  wife,  too;  and  a  child — 
A  dainty  creature,  six  years  old, 

With  pretty  little  hands  and  feet, 

And  hair  that  hung  in  waves  of  gold. 


UNDER  THE  SNOW.  51 

I  was  a  favored  man,  my  friends ; 

Hope   made  the  future  fair  and  bright ; 
I  loved   my  wife,  my  child,  my  mill — 

]S~o  prince   could  boast   a  heart   more  light. 

XIY. 
"And  when   the  long  day's  toil  was  done, 

With   sunny  smiles   upon  her  brow, 
My  wife  would   greet   me   at   the   gate — 

God  bless  her !     She's  an   angel   now ! 
And  Bessie — yes,    sir;    that's   the   child — 

Would  climb   into   my  arms  and   lay 
Her  golden  head   upon   my  breast, 

Just  like   a  wearied  little   Fay. 

XY. 

"And  in   the   dusk   of  summer-eve 

I'd  sit  beneath   the   chestnut-tree, 
With  wife  and  Bessie   by  my  side — 

I'm  choking   with   the  memory ! 
Oh !    happy,    blissful  days  of  yore ! 

Could   I   but   live  them   o'er   again, 
How  different   my  after-life 

Would  be.     Alas,  regret  is  vain ! 


52  UNDER  THE  SNOW. 

XVI.  • 

"I   took  to   drinking  after   that. 

I   need  not  tell   how  I  became 
A   drunkard,  and  the  jest   and   scorn 

Of  those  who   once  revered   my  name. 
Across  the  valley  stood  the  inn. 

Under  the  beech-trees,  on  the  hill; 
And  there  I'd  go   day  after  day, 

Neglecting  wife,  child,  home,  and  mill. 

XVII. 

"  It  wasn't  long  till   poverty 

Came,  like   a  thief,  unto   our  door, 
And  stole   our  comforts  one  by  one ; 

And  yet,   for  all,  I  sinned  the  more. 
And  Mary's  cheek  grew  pale  and  thin, 

The  blood  seemed  going  drop  by  drop  ; 
The  sunny  smiles  all  faded,   too. 

I  saw  that,  but  I  could  not  stop. 

XYIII. 

"  God  knows  I  tried  to   break  it  off. 
But  when   the  thirst  was  on   my  soul, 


UNDER   THE  SNOW.  53 

I  would   have   bartered   hope   of  Heav'n 
For  one   draught  from  the  poisoned  bowl ! 

Oh !  how  it  stung  my  fallen   pride 

When   former  friends  jeered   at   my   name, 

Or   passed   me   with   a  glance   of  scorn — 
I   had    to   drink    to   drown   the   shame ! 

XIX. 

"  And    thus   the    Summer   passed   away ; 

And   when   the   chill   north- wind   foretold 
The   "Winter's   near   approach,   the   mill, 

Long  silent   from   neglect,    was  sold. 
Our  little  homestead   followed   soon, 

To   cancel  debts  long   overdue, 
And   in   a   log   hut   down  the   vale 

thought   to   live   the   Winter  through. 


XX. 

"  The   stormy  weather  came  at   last. 

The   bleak   winds  of  December   shriek'd 
Among  the  leafless  maple-boughs, 

And  beam,   and   roof,   and   rafter   creak'd. 


54  UNDER  THE  SNOW. 

But   desolation   reigned  within, 
More   terrible   than   Winter's   pall; 

For   crime-begotten   poverty, 
With   demon   scowl,    hung   over  all. 

XXI. 

"  And  yet   from    patient   Mary's   lips 

Ne'er  fell  reproach  or  bitter   word. 
My  oft-made  pledges   of  reform 

She  joyfully,  yet   doubting,   heard. 
Ah !   vain   were   pledges !      Drink   was   still 

My  bane  of  life.      Within  its  snare 
It   held   me,   till   I  loathed   myself, 

And  slowly  yielded   to   despair. 

XXII. 
"  One  bitter   evening  Bessie   came 

To   urge   me  home,  as   oft   before 
She'd   done.       With   oaths   and   cruel   words, 

I   drove  her  from   the   tavern-door. 
My   God !      The  look  of  sad   reproach 

She  gave  me,   I   shall   ne'er  forget ! 
Though   many  years  have  passed,   that   look 

Of  yearning  anguish   haunts   me   yet. 


UNDER  THE  SNOW.  55 

XXIII. 

"  Again   I   see   her   dainty   form 

Close  wrapp'd   in   shawl   of  faded   red ; 
A   little,   fur-trimmed,   woolen   hood, 

Scarce   covering  her  golden   head. 
Out   in   the   cold   she,   weeping,   went, 

With   slow   and  hesitating   tread  ; 
My  gaze   went   after,    till   the  gloom 

Hid   dainty  form   and   golden   head. 

XXIV. 

"  The  night  shut  in.      A   dusky  haze 

Had  gathered  over  hill   and   dale; 
And,    whirled  before  the   northern   wind, 

The   snow-flakes   drifted   down  the   vale. 
Faster,   and  faster  still,   they   fell, 

Until   the   air  was  thick   as   night, 
And   hill,   and   dale,   and   wood,   and   field, 

Were  mantled   with   a   veil   of  white. 

XXY. 

"All  night  the  roaring  storm   swept   on; 
All   night   came   down   the   drifting  show'rs ; 


56  UNDER   THE  SNOW. 

And,  deeming  wife   and   child   safe  hous'd, 
In  drunken  glee  I  passed   the  hours. 

At   break   of  day  no   change  had   come — 
The   snow  still   drifted   from  the   north; 

And   scarce  until  the  hour  of  noon 
Could   one,  with  safety,  venture  forth. 


XXYI. 

"  "With   conscience   sore,  and  aching  limbs, 

I  homeward   toiled  through   drifts   of  snow, 
Which,  wind-swept  from   the  hills  above, 

Had  heaped   in  waves   the  vale  below. 
And  far  across  the  dreary  waste 

A   single   smoke-wreath,  blue   and   thin, 
Slow   curling  o'er  my   cheerless   home, 

Alone  gave  note   of  life  within. 

XXVII. 

"  Yes,   drear   without ;    but   Oh,    within ! 

Too   soon  I  learned  the  dreadful   cost 
Of  that   dark  night   of  revelry — 

My   child — God's   mercy !    She   was   lost ! 


UNDER  THE  SNOW.  57 

One  glance   from   Mary  told   the   tale 
Ere   I   had  passed  the   creaking  door : 

1  My   child !    Our     Bessie  I    !Not   with  you  ? 
She   shrieked,   and   swooned  upon   the  floor. 

XXVIII. 
"  A  thunderbolt   could  not  have   struck 

Such   icy   terror   through  my   frame ! 
The   winter-winds   shrieked   '  Murderer  ! ' 

And   coupled   with  it  Bessie's  name. 
The   air   seemed  filled   with   howling  fiends, 

And   cold   drops   started  from   my   brow — 
Some   water,  there !    I'm   smothering ! 

I   thank  you — there — I'm   better  now. 

XXIX. 

"I  need  not  tell  you   of  the  weeks 

Of  fruitless   search   through   waste   and   wild, 
Hoping,    yet   dreading,    each  new  drift 

I   overturned  enshrined  my  child ; 
Nor  how  my  wife — poor  stricken  dove! — 

When  time   confirmed   our  Bessie's   doom, 
From  frantic  grief  and   wild   despair, 

Fell   into   apathetic  gloom. 


58  UNDER  TEE  SNOW. 

XXX. 

"Day  after   day  she  idly   sat 

With  folded  hands  and   drooping  form, 
While   deep-drawn  sighs  and   quiv'ring  lips 

Betrayed  the   smothered  inward  storm. 
And  when   the  Winter's   reign  was  o'er, 

And  snowdrifts  changed   to   leaping  rills, 
Half-crazed,   the  livelong   day   she'd   search 

The  vales   and  nooks  among  the  hills. 

XXXI. 

"  One   April  eve,   returning  not, 

All  night  I   searched,   and   madly  call'd 
Her  name.       The  morning  sun   reveal'd 

A   sight   I   started  from   appall'd! 
A  lifeless  form  upon  the  ground, 

Some  scattered,   mould'ring  bones   beside 
A  tattered   shawl  and  fur-trimm'd  hood, 

Told  where   my   wife   and   child  had   died ! 

XXXII. 

"  Down  in  the  valley,   by   the  brook, 
They  both  rest  in  a  single  grave ; 


UNDER  THE  SNOW. 
A   rose-tree  blossoms   either  side, 

And  overhead  the   willows   wave. 
The  brooklet  ripples  at  their  feet 
A   requiem   so   sad   and  sweet, 
That   zephyrs  halt  to   catch   the   strain, 
And   murmur  it   along   the  plain. 

XXXIII. 

"  And  now   they   call   me  mad !      Ah,  no ! 

I'm  but  an   autumn-leaf,   storm-driv'n  — 
A  pilgrim,   waiting  God's   own    time 

To  join  my  wife  and   child  in   Heav'n. 
For  if  long  years  of  penance   can 

Blot  out  the   sins  of  early   years, 
God  knows   I  have   atoned  for  mine, 

In  blinding  and  repentant  tears !  " 


POEMS    OF    MEMORY. 


TO 

MY  DEAR  SISTERS, 
BESS    and    EMILY, 

THESE   POEMS    OF   MEMORY 
ARE  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED. 


THE   OLD   BIBLE. 

Two  brazen    clasps  across  the  front, 

The  hinges  red  with  rust ; 
The  back  all  scarred  and  marred  with  age, 

And   covered  o'er  with   dust. 

The  corners   dog-eared,   soiled   and  worn, 

And  all  the  leaves   displaced ; 
And  here  and  there  are  penciled  lines, 

By  father's  dear  hand  traced. 

Upon   the  walnut-stand  it  lies 

From   morn   till   evening  late ; 
And    though  it  seems  like  others,   yet 

I've  never  seen  its   mate. 


64  POEMS  OF  MEMORY. 

The  window  faces  to  the  West, 
Where   I   have   often   stood, 

Leaning  upon   that  dear  old   book, 
And  gazing  t'ward   the   wood. 

And  just  beyond,  a   maple-tree, 
With   leaves   of  em'rald   hue, 

Flecks   o'er   the  window-sill  with  shade, 
And  veils   the  sun  from   view. 

The   garden-path  looks  just   the   same 

It   did  long  years   agone, 
When   I,  a   child,  unknown   to   care, 

Did  ramble   there   alone. 

The  wooden  posts,  with  balls   atop, 
Where   hangs   the  garden-gate, 

Are  worm-eaten   and  worn   with  age, 
And   bending   'neath   their  weight. 

The  gate  is  creaky,  and  the   latch 

Is   rusted   o'er   by  time ; 
And  up  the   fast-decaying  pales 

Sweet  honeysuckles  climb. 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY.  65 

The   orchard,    too,    though  old,    remains, — 

The   blossoms,   pink   and   white, 
Are  jnst   the   same   they   used   to    be, 

The   colors  just   as   bright. 

And   when    the   rich    October  month 

Puts   on   its  Autumn   suit, 
The   trees   are   loaded  just   the   same, 

With  green   and   golden    fruit. 

And  yet   the   orchard,   garden-gate, 

The   spring,   the   running  brook, 
Can   never   such   remembrance   bring 

As  that   old,   time-worn  book. 

The   brightest   garlands  of  my   youth, 

Which   memory   now  weaves, 
Were   moments  spent   by   mother's   knee, 

Turning  for   her  the   leaves. 


A    REMEMBRANCE. 

A  BANK   of  rugged,   fleecy   clouds 

Piled    up   against    the    azure   sky, 
And   brilliant   lines   of  gold   and    red 

Along  their   changeful    edges   lie. 
The   waning   orb   of  day  doth   pause 

To  tip  the  trees  of  em'rald  green 
With   brighter  hues,   then   sinks    to    rest 

Behind   the  glowing   western   screen. 

Above   an   ivy-covered   roof, 

A   tow'ring,   haughty   willow    bends, 
And   from   the    rustic    chimney-top 

A   wreath  of  curling  smoke  ascends ; 
And   there,  beneath   the  glancing  light, 

It   turns   to   amethystine   hue, 
And   then   dissolves  to  gossamer, 

And   melts   into   the   distant   blue. 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY.  67 

A  group  of  laughing   children   stand 

To   watch  the  flickering   daylight   fade ; 
The  plough-boy   whistles   merrily 

While   plodding  homeward   thro'   the  glade. 
A   motley  herd   of  cattle   stoop 

To   drink  from   out   the  running   rill, 
And,   having  quenched   their  fevered   thirst, 

They   wander,    lowing,    up    the   hill. 


A   Summer-scene  ! — a   common   view  ! 

Yet   one   most   pleasing   to   the  gaze  : — 
'Tis   sweet   remembrances   like   these 

That   soothe   and   cheer   our   dying   days. 


LITTLE    BEN. 

"  MOTHER,   darling,  don't   you   think 
I'm   well   and   strong  enough   to   rise, 

And  sit  outside   the  cottage-door, 

Beneath  the  clear    blue  Autumn    skies? 

"  This  little  room   is   close  and   dark, 
For  scarce  a   single   ray   of  light 

Can  force  its  way   through   yonder  blind- 
It   seems   like   one   perpetual   night. 

"  When  Georgie  held  the  door  ajar 
Just  now,  beyond  the  orchard-wall 

I  saw  the  ladders  'gainst  the  trees, 
And  heard  the  ripened  apples  fall. 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY.  C! 

"  I  know  I  won't  be  strong  enough 
To  help  bring  in  the  fruit  this  year; 

.But,  oh !  I'd  love  to  sit  and  watch 
The  men  and  boys  at  work  and  hear 

"  The   apples   tumbling  to   the   ground — 

Some  gold   and  green,  some   striped   with  red ; 

And   some   almost   as  large   and   round 
As  baby   Georgie's  golden  head. 

"  Oh !    mother,  dear,   do   let  me   go ! 

I'm   sure   'twould   ease  this   aching   pain 
Which   throbs   about   my   temples   so." 

And   Benny  pleaded    not   in   vain. 

The  Windsor-chair  was   carried   out 
And  placed  beneath  a  cooling  shade ; 

And   'mong  the   pillows,   snowy   white, 
The  little  invalid   was  laid. 

The  laborers   a   moment  paused 

To  kindly  greet  the  master's   son ; 
For  Benny's  gentle   spirit   had, 

In   former  days,  their  friendship   won. 


70  POEMS  OF  MEMORY. 

The  blue-bird  warbled   overhead 

A   song   of  joy   and   gratitude ; 
And  long  did  little  Ben   recline 

In  blissful,  dreamy  lassitude. 

But  nature  wearied  out  at  last ; 

And   slumber  banished    smile   or   frown  — 
The   angel   Peace   came   flitting  past, 

And   pressed  the  drooping  lashes   down. 

The   sun   peeped   through   the   swinging   boughs, 

To   kiss  the   waving  flaxen  hair; 
And    Autumn   zephyrs  gently   whirled 

The  leaves  about   the   Windsor-chair. 


GOLD-BROWN    HAIR. 

THE   monarch   of  light   rose   up   in   the   East, 

And   crimsoned   the   face   of  the   morn, 
And   sent  forth   a   shower  of  sunlight   to   feast 

On   the   acres   of  barley   and   corn. 
And   the   wild-rose   lifted   its   arrogant   crest, 
And    shook     the    bright     dew     from     its    redolent 

breast ; 

And   the  birds  sang  sweet  and  low, 
As   they   flitted  hither  and  fro. 

A   sweet  little   maiden   tripp'd   over   the   dew, 

She   was   bright   as   a   morning   in   May ; 
And   her  beautiful  eyes  were   as  dreamy  and  blue 

As  the   haze   of  an   October  day. 
And  her  lips  were   as   ripe  and   as   ruby  as  wine, 
And   her  motion   was  light   as-  a   swaying   vine, 
And  her  gold-brown   hair   so   bright 
Reflected   the  ripples  of  light. 


72  POEMS  OF  MEMORY. 

A   melody   floated   up   into   the   air, 

As   sweet   as  the  trill   of  a  bird. 
I   called   to   this   maid  with   the   gold-brown  hair, 

But   she   answered  me   never   a   word. 
Yet   the   sly,  winning  glance  of  her  beautiful  eye 
Still   lives   in   my   heart,   though    years   have   gone 

by; 

And   I   wyonder  are   angels   so   fair 

As   this   maid  with  the  gold-brown   hair  ? 


WOODBINE. 

How  oft  I  sit  and  idly  gaze 
Upon  the  distant  silver  haze, 
And  drearn  again  the  golden  days 

Of  long   ago. 
I   see   again   the   ivy -vine 
Around   the  pillar'd  porch   entwine  ; 
The   apple-trees   spread   out   in  line, 

All   pink   and   snow. 

I   seem   again,   in  youth,   to   roam 
Where  breeze-caressing  willows  moan 
Around   my   darling  boyhood   home — 

Revered   "Woodbine ! 
And  fondly   do   my   thoughts  go   back 
To   watch   the   white-wing'd   sloop   and   smack 
Flit   o'er   the   river's   silver   track, 

In   Summer-time. 
4 


74  POEMS  OF  MEMORY. 

Again   1   see  the  waving  wheat 

Turn    brown   beneath   the   Summer-heat, 

And  hear  the   tread   of  coming  feet 

In  harvest-time. 

And  as  I  roam  among  the  trees, 
The  reapers'  voices  on  the  breeze 
Seem  like  the  murmur  of  the  bees 

Around  Woodbine. 


I   often   think   of  sister   Bess, 

And  how   she'd   chide  my   naughtiness ; 

And  yet  I  loved  her  none  the   less, 

Or  ever  will. 

How   oft  we  crept   along   the   ledge, 
To  gather  berries  from   the   hedge, 
And  scatter  them   along  the  edge 

Of  Elton   Rill. 

And  often  has  the  welkin   rung 
"With   songs  that   Bess  and   I   have   sung, 
In  those  bright  days  when   we   were  young, 
And   laughed   at  fears. 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY.  75 

Ah !    then   the  joys   of  earth    were   rife, 
For   we   were   in   the   morn   of  life, 
And   dreamed   not   of  the   toil   and   strife  * 
Of  after-years. 

Again  the  earth  is  green  and  fair, 
And  perfumes,  on  the  evening  air, 
Come  drifting  through  my  window,  where 

I   now   recline, 

Dreaming  again  the  days  of  yore — 
The  golden  time  long  since — before 
I  was  a  wand'rer  from  the  door 

Of  sweet  Woodbine! 


I'VE    SOMETHING    TO    TELL. 

COME   out  in   the  beautiful   sunshine, 

Come  out  in  the  golden  glow ; 
Oh !    come   while  the   morning   zephyrs 

Are  whispering  soft   and    low. 
Come,   roam   with  me   over  the  meadow, 

Where   the  grass  is   so   soft   and  green — 
1   have   something   so   sweet    to   tell   you, 

My   beautiful,   beautiful   queen ! 

Come  out  where   the   barley  is   waving, 

And   quivering  under   the   breeze, 
And   the   tassels   are   dancing  so   lightly 

To  the   hum   of  the   murmuring   bees. 
Come   out   to   the   shadowy   woodland, 

Where  the   trees   are   all   emerald   green ; 
For  I've  something   so   sweet   to   tell   you, 

My  beautiful,  beautiful   queen ! 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY.  ft 

I   know    of  a   greenwood   bower, 

Far   out   in   the   woodland    wild ; 
'Tis   hidden   a  way   from   all   the   world, 

Save   the   birds   and   the   zephyrs    mild. 
Below  is  a  velvety   carpet, 

Above   is   an   emerald   screen ; 
Do   come,   for   I've   something   to   tell   yon, 

My   beautiful,    beautiful   queen ! 

You   are   bright   as   a   flower   this   morning, 

With  your  ribbons  of  scarlet  and  snow ; — 
I   knew  you   would   come,  my  darling ; 

My  heart  had  foretold  me  so. 
You   wish   me   to   tell   you   my   secret  ? 

Oh !    can   you  not  guess  what   I    mean  ? 
Then,  I'll  tell  you,  my  darling :   I  love  you ! 

My   beautiful,    beautiful   queen ! 


A  REMINISCENCE   OF  YOUTH. 

THE   balmiest  days   of  the  year  had   come, 

When   nature — her   Summer-work   done — 
Sat  peacefully   back  in  her  Autumnal   chair, 

And  smilingly  talked   with   the  sun. 
The  leaves  were   beginning   to   brown   beneath 

The    mellowy-golden  blaze; 
And  the  far-off  hills  like  phantoms    appear'd 

'Neath  mantles  of  silvery  haze. 

The  hedges  were   dropping   their   leafy   screens, 

And   the  branches   were  growing  bare ; 
And  the  blue-bells,   shaken   by  Autumn   winds, 

A  requiem   rang  in   the   air. 
Away   thro'   the  meadow,   and   over  the   moor, 

Away  to  the   wild   woodland, 
Thro'   stubble,  and   brier,  and  brake   we  roam'd 

Together,  with  basket  in  hand. 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY.  79 

With    hearts   as     light   as   the   white   thistle-downs 

That   floated   on   every   breeze, 
We   clambered   the  high  rail-fence  by  the   wood, 

And   climbed   up   the   hickory-trees. 
And  laughing   and   shouting,   as   only   boys   can, 

At   the  glorious   prize   we  had  found, 
We   shook   from   the  branches  the  ripe-brown   nuts, 

And  showered   them   down   to   the  ground. 

But  that  has  been  years ;    ah !    long  years   ago ; 
And    we    the    bright    dream    shall     never     more 

know — 
Never  again  ! 

For  Robin  has  flown  to  the  Kingdom  of  God — 
His   body  is  lying   beneath  the  green   sod 
In    the    little    churchyard,    where  the   willow-trees 

nod 
To  Robin   Tremaine ! 


THE  SOUTHERN  MAID'S 
LAMENT. 

UNDER  the   odorous   orange-tree 

Sadly  and  lonely  I   mourn   for  thee ! 

Ah !    where   do  you  linger,  away  from  me  ? 

My  poor  heart  is  well-nigh  breaking! 
You  promised  to   come  when   the  rich   perfume, 
Which  hides  in   the   bell   of  the   orange-bloom, 
Was  filtered  below   over  Winter's  tomb 

By  the  south  wind's  gentle  shaking. 

My  heart  is  untuned  to  the  blithesome  glees 
Which   come    from    the   moors,  where  the  cypress- 
trees 

Are   waving   their  branches   aloft   in   the   breeze, 
With  moss-curtains   swinging   beneath. 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY.  81 

The    Spring,   and   the  Summer,   and   Winter   have 

passed, — 

Another  lone   Summer  is   coming   on  fast, — 
Ah!    I  fear  that  my  love-dream  is  over  at  last, 
And  peace   will   come   only  in   death ! 

Sadly   I   wept  when  you  bade  me  good-bye ; 
You  chided   me,  saying,  the   time   would   soon  fly, 
And  that  you  would  surely  return  by-and-by; 

And   then  we   should  never  be   parted. 
You  vowed   to   be    faithful !    and  now  'tis  a  year 
Since    you    promised    to   come,   and    you  are   not 

here. 
1 

You  have  taken  a  bride  of  the  North,  I  fear, 
And  left  me   to   die   broken-hearted ! 
4* 


DREAMING. 

WHEN   Morning  hangs  the   lamp  of  day 

Against   the   arch   of  blue, 
And   em'rald    meads   are  dotted    o'er 

With  beads  of  diamond   dew, 
And   zephyrs,  like   the   thoughts  of  love, 

Roam  unrestrained  and   free 
Across   the   sunlit,  gold-green   hills, 

'Tis   then   I   dream  of  thee. 

And  when   the   arid  Noon   has  come, 

With  quiet,  golden    glow, 
And  naught  is  heard  through   all   the  glen 

Except  the  gentle  flow 
Of  brooks,  my  spirit  roams   with  thee 

Through   wild   woodland   and   glade — 
Through   ever-changing  floods  of  light 

And   moving  veils  of  shade. 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY.  83 

When   Evening   draws  her  dusky  veil 

Athwart   the  light  of  day, 
And   on   the   peaceful   brow   of  night 

The   south   winds  fondly  play ; 
And  twilight's  soft  and   mystic   hues 

Fall   lightly,    greeting   ine 
With  song  of  birds,  and   breath   of  flowers, 

Ah !    then   I   dream   of  thee. 

From   early  morn   till   morn   again 

I   dream,   sweet  one,  of  thee; 
What  happiness  'twould  be  to   know 

That  thou   dost  think  of  me ! 


AN    AUTUMN    STORM. 

ALL  day  there   came  from  the   southern   clime 

A  breeze  like   the  breath  of  Spring; 
And  the  mullein   decked  his  waving  plume, 

And  bowed  like  a  living  thing. 
And  a  misty  haze  of  purple  swept 
Over  the  valley,   and  slowly   crept — 
A  mystic,   filmy   screen — 
Along  the  wild  ravine. 

The  god  of  day,   in   a  blaze   of  light, 

Had  slowly  sunk  to  rest, 
When  suddenly  veered  the   changeful   winds, 

And  shifted   'round  to   the  west ; 
But  first   a  stillness,  like  the  dead, 
Over  the  face  of  the  earth   was   spread ; 
And  sultry  grew  the   air, 
Like  August  burning  there. 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY.  85 

Then   slowly   a  mass   of  inky   clouds 

Rolled   up   in  the   western   sky, 
And,   like   a   terrible   banner  of  death, 

Came   on   with   a  moaning  sigh. 
Nearer  it   came,   and  the  lightning's   flash 
Was   followed   quick   by   the   thunder's   crash. 
And   the  angry  winds,   let  free, 
Dashed  on   over  land   and   sea. 


Then   heavy,  o'er-weighted   clouds  gave   down 

One   sheet   of  drenching  rain, 
And  the  storm-king's  terrible  voice  was  heard 

O'er  valley,   and  hill,  and  plain; 
And  the   hemlock   bent   to   the   sweeping  blast, 
And   straighten'd   not  till   the   storm  had   passed, 
And  his   distant   rumbling  moan 

o 

Came   back  as  a  dying  groan. 


Then   over  the  valley,  and   city,  and   plain, 

And  over  the  mountain-crest, 
The  mist-wreaths  lay  in   their  purple  glow, 

As  calm   as  an  infant's  rest ; 


86  POEMS  OF  MEMORY. 

And  the  moon   shone  out  from   her  azure  height, 
And   changed    the  deep  gloom   to   a   silver  white, 

And  the  stars  looked  down   serene 

Upon  the   peaceful    scene. 


WITHERED    VIOLETS. 

How   well  I   remember, 
That  mom   in   September, 

We  roamed   where   the   violets   bloom ; 
Where  light  zephyrs  clove 
Their  way   through   the  grove, 

All  laden  with  richest  perfume. 

The  flowers  were  bright 
With  the  tears  of  the   night — 

Their  petals  all  sparkling  with   dew; 
And   the   sun  from   the  East 
Drank  the   drops  from  the  least 

Of  the  tendrils  of  purple  and  blue. 

The   brooklets  were   singing; 
The  valleys   were   ringing 
With  the  tinkling  of  many   a  bell ; 


88  POEMS  OF  MEMORY. 

The  kine-herds  \vere  lowing, 
As   on    they   came,    going 

To  graze  the  green  grass  in   the   dell. 

The  vines   that  were  spread 
All  about  overhead 

Veiled  the   sun  with  an  emerald  screen 
Save  one  little  ray 
That  had  struggled  its  way 

Thro'   the  masses  of  quivering  green. 

Down  at  our  feet 
Grew  the  violets  sweet, 

With  delicate   leaflet  and  hue. 
I  gathered  them    there 
In   that  greenwood  lair, 

And   shook  off  the    diamonds   of  dew. 


The   flowers   have   withered  I  culled  for  my  love; 

That   soul   was   not   true  to   its   vow. 
Another  has   gathered   the   flower  I   prized, 

And  life  is   all   desolate   now. 


A    MORNING    RAMBLE. 

A   MORNING    in    Spring !    American   Spring ! 

The  golden   orb   of  day   rolls   slowly   up 

The    vaulted   east,   disbursing   show'rs   of  light, 

With   prodigal   extravagance,   across 

The  green,   dew-spangled  meadows.     Not    a   cloud 

Mars   all   the   blue    of  overhanging   skies, 

Save   one    sun-tinted,   pearly   flake,    which   fades, 

And   slowly   grows   extinct,   far   down   the    west ; 

While  fanning    breezes  drift    from  southern  climes, 

As   gently   as   the   breath   from    angels'    wings. 

Come,    roam    with    me    across    the    fields,    sweet 

one ; 

Together   we    will    quaff  into    our  lungs 
The   clover-scented   air,  and   dream   of  naught 
But  each  the  other.       I   will  show  to   thee 


90  POEMS  OF  MEMORY. 

The  little   violet,   just  peeping  up 

From   out  its   mossy   birth-couch ;    and'  I'll   show 

How   'tis  an  emblem  of  thy   own   sweet    self— 

The  purple   tint   upon   its   velvet  leaves 

As  chaste   and  delicate  as  are  the   thoughts 

Of    thy    pure    heart.        The    soft    perfume  which 

floats 

Above  its  fairy  cup   is   far  less  sweet 
Than    thy    rich  breathing,   when   thou  speak'st   of 

love. 

Yon  bush   of    snowy   blooms,   changed   to   a   sheet 
Of  burnished   silver   'neath   the  glancing  light, 
Is  like   thy  brow,   which   sin  has   never  stained. 
The   dainty  penciling  upon  this  leaf 
Is  like  the   silken  fringe   that  veils  the  light 
From   thy   dark   eye. 


Oh !    Nature   cannot  be 
More   beautiful   than   woman   in  her   pride! 
For  Nature  fills  the  heart   with  life  and  joy; 
But  woman,  in  her  purity,  doth  lift 
The   soul   beyond   the   angels'   sphere ! 


POEMS  OF  MEMORY.  91 

We've   crossed 

The   inossy   carpet   of  the   meads,    and   now 
Approach  the   wood.      And   hark !    the  blue-bird's 

song 

Chimes   with  the   music   of  our  hearts ;    and  see ! 
The    trees    have    caught     the    em'rald     gleam    of 

x  Spring. 

The   buds  spread   timidly   their   tiny   leaves, 
And   tinge  to   deeper  hues  beneath  the  sun ; 
Bees   fill   the  air   with   dreamy   murmuring; 
And   mottle-breasted   robins   add   their  songs. 
The  browrn   thrush   ruffles    up  his  little   throat, 
And  warbles  forth  his   flute-like   melody ; 
And  look!   perched  high  above,  on  yonder  bough, 
The   squirrel,    chattering  in   comic  rage, 
As  if  to   drive   us   from   his   sylvan   home; 
While  far  across  the  fields,   where   apple-blooms 
Are  quivering   beneath  the   breeze,    the   quail 
Is  piping   to   his   mate. 

The   Universe 

Seems  bursting  into    song !    Dame   Nature's  harp 
Is   strung,  and   all   the   golden  strings   in   tune; 


92  POEMS  OF  MEMORY. 

And   merrily  our  swelling   hearts   resound 
To   Nature's    chimes. 

Oh !    is  it  not   a   boon — 

A  great   God-given   boon — these   souls   of  ours, 
That   bend  in    adoration   to    the  grand, 
The   beautiful,    sublime,  and   wondrous   works 
Of  Nature's   wonderful  Artificer? 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE    DOOMED    CITY. 

IN   peaceful  rest  the  western   city   lay, 

Unconscious  of  the  gathering  of  doom  ; 
The  moon   rolled  on   upon  its   silver   way, 

And,     glancing     down,      half-smiled     away     the 

gloom. 

But,   hark !       Whence   comes   that  wild   and   fear- 
ful  cry, 
Which     wakes     the      peaceful     slumberer     with 

fright  ? 

What   means   that  awful   glare   against  the   sky, 
That   rises  lurid   on   the   brow   of  night? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  95 

It  is   the   dreadful,   deep-toned   fire-bell, 

Which  wakes  the  echoes  with  its  wild  alarm— - 
That   lurid  glare  against   the   sky  doth   tell 

The   roused   sleeper  of  impending  harm. 
The  besom  of  destruction  onward   came — 

A   roaring,   writhing,   leaping   sea  of  fire ! 
On   swept   the   life-devouring  tongues   of  flame, 

And  left  behind   but   desolation   dire ! 

Tongue   cannot   tell   the   deep   despair   and    woe 

Which  follow  sudden  loss  of  friends  and  home! 
Oh !    Ye   so   wreck'd   a  few   short  hours   ago, 

May   God   watch  over  you  where'er   you   roam. 
And   ye   who   life,   health,   home,   and  friends  still 
hold, 

Oh !    hearken    to   the   cry   of  those   in   need ; 
And   God   will   prosper  you   a    thousand-fold 

For   every  kind,   unselfish   word   and   deed. 


WE'VE  GONE  THROUGH  LIFE 
TOGETHER. 

WE'KE   growing  old — my  love  and    I — 

The   shades  of  life   are   nearing ; 
We're   drifting   slowly   down   the   tide,— 

The   other  shore's  appearing. 
But  life   don't  seem  a  worthless  thing — 

A  joy  now  gone  forever — 
Because  we've  journeyed  hand-in-hand, 

And  gone   through  life    together. 

And   if,   at   times,   our  path   grew   dark, 
We   ne'er  gave  way   to   sorrow ; 

Because   we   knew   the   sky    would    be 
All  -pl^qr   asain    to-morrow. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  97 

Our   youthful   love   has   never   waned — 

Our  hearts   are   young  as   ever; 
And   thus,   for  threescore  years   and   ten, 

We've   gone   through   life   together. 

We've   always  lent   a   helping  hand 

To   those   who   were   in   trouble ; 
The   consciousness   of  duty   done 

Has   more   than   paid  us   double. 
We've   passed   the   time   allotted  here; 

And   when   from   earth   we   sever, 
We   pray   the   Heav'nly   gates   to   ope, 

And   take   us   both   together. 


NEVER    DESPAIR. 

Nil   desperandum !      Don't  give  up 

"When  tickle  Fortune   does  not  fawn  ; 
The   darkest  night  will  have   an   end, 

And   day  will  surely  follow   dawn. 
The  blackest  cloud   that   ever  rose 

Will  pass  away,  its  firry   spent ; 
And   every  sorrow  we  endure 

Is  by  our  Heav'nly   Father  sent. 

The  storm   and  sunshine  both  are  giv'n 
By   One  who  knows   our  every  need ; 

Each   bitter  grief  some  lesson   proves, 
If  we  are   wise  enough  to   heed. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  99 

What   if  the   waves   roll   high   and   dark, 
And  with   the  storm   we  have   to   cope  ? 

There's  many  a  tide   of  battle   turned 
By  Courage,   hand-in-hand  with  Hope ! 

If  friends  forsake   us  in   our  need, 

There's  nothing  gained   by  giving   up; 
The  sweetest  draught  will   sweeter  be, 

If  we   have   drained   the  bitter   cup. 
For,  Oh !    how   sweet   the   breath   of  Spring 

When  Winter-winds  have  taken  flight ; 
And   'tis  by  contrast   with  the  dark, 

We  learn  the  value  of  the   light. 

Nil  desperandum !      Struggle   on! 

And   keep   in   view   the   promise-bow ; 
There's   something   in   the   future   can 

Atone  for  every  present   woe. 


A     SUMMER    RHYME. 

THE   Spring  has  gone,  and   June  is  here — 
The   fairest   month   of  all   the   year. 

And   down  the  hills 

The  little  rills, 

In   frantic  freaks, 

Dash   o'er  the   peaks, 
And   mingling  with   the   drifting   spray, 
They  join   the  river  far   away. 

The   mocking-bird, 
With  grateful   trill, 

Is   cheerly  heard 
Along   the   hill. 

The   feather'd  throng 

Join  in   the  song, 
And  waft  the   melodies   along. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  101 

The   roses  bloom  ; 

And   sweet  perfume 

Allures  the  bees 

To   drain   the  lees 
Of  blossoms  pink  and  white. 
Come,  wander  with  me,  little   maid, 
Along  the   edge   of  yonder  glade, 
And   'neath  a  cloud  of  cooling  shade 
I'll   cull  thee   dainty   flowers ; 

And  blossoms   sweet 

About   thy  feet 
Shall   fall   in   feath'ry  showers. 

The  breeze   shall   come, 
And  eager  sip 

The  honey  from 
Thy  dewy  lip, 
Then  lightly  trip 

Away  o'er  mountain,  hill,  and   dale, 
And   over  forest,  field,  and  vale, 

To  brush  the  dew 

From   oak   and  yew, 

From   meadow-grass 

And  wild  morass, 


102  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And   scatter  beads 
Among  the   weeds 

That  lie  beneath   the  waving  reeds, 
Where  little  fish, 
With  ne'er  a  wish 

Beyond  the  ebb  and  flow   of   tides, 
About   the  brooks, 
In  little  nooks, 

Turn  up   their  flashing  silver  sides. 
The   Fay  of  Spring 
Is   on  the  wing, 
And   sweet  perfume 
Of  flowers   in  bloom 

Is  floating  over  Winter's  tomb. 


ODD     JOE,   THE    ORGAN- 
GRINDER. 

You   are  right,   friend;    that   organ   is   pretty  well 
worn — 

I've   heard    it    remarked    before— 
It    wasn't  quite   new   when   it   first    came   to   me, 

And   Pve   had    it   five   years   or   more. 

Good-natnred  ?    Oh   yes,   sir ;   I  try   to    seem  gay  ; 

I  find   it   pays   best   to   be    so. 
Queer    chap  ?      So     the    boys    of     the    regiment 
thought — 

In    the   army   they    called   me  ' "  Odd  Joe." 

Come    away,    Madeline;     don't   bother   the   gent 
With   your  doleful    "  Pennies    for   food ;" 

You'll   excuse  her,    my    friend — it's    a    habit    she's 

got— 
You    see    she   don't    mean    to   be   rude. 


104  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

My   daughter  ?    Oh  yes,  sir ;  that's   my  little   girl ; 

She  gathers   the  pennies,  poor  thing — 
But  ISTell  was  the  brave  little   soldier  for  gain, 

Because  she  was  pert   and  could  sing. 


She  was  brighter  and  fairer  than   this  little    one. 

Yes,  dead — thought  I   told   you  before. 
Don't   cry,  Mad. ;    for,   ever  since   Nellie   is  gone 

You  know  I  have  loved  you  the  more. 


My   arm,   sir?     At   Richmond.        Best   one   of  the 

two ; 

And  this  scratch   I  got   there,  as  well: 
I   went    down    the    first    charge — Yes,  I    think    it 

was  grape, 
Or  it   might  have  been  part   of  a  shell. 


That  tune  there  that  Maddy  is  playing  you  now, 
We  heard  above   all  the   commotion — 

Ah !    many   a   soul  has  gone  up   to   its   God 
To   the   tune   of  "The   Gem   of  the   Ocean." 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  105 

I   havn't   been   good  for   much   ever   since   then ; 

Ten   months  in   a  prison,  shut   out 
From    the    world,   and    the   light,    and   all   tidings 
of  home, 

Isn't  likely   to   make   a  man   stout. 

When   I   came  home  at  last — that's  the   worst   of 
it   all— 

My  wife   was  gone !       Dead  ?  — Better   dead ! 
She   had   left   the   two   children   in   poverty,    sir, 

And   with   her   false   lover  had   fled ! 

"Why  leave   them   behind?     Why,  I'll  tell  you,  my 

friend ; 

Little  Mad.,  there,  looks   very   like   me ; 
And    her  innocent    face   would    have   been    a   re- 
proach 
To   the  bad-hearted  woman,   you   see. 

For  five  years  I've  tramped  it  thro'  country  and 

town, 

And  peered   in   each   face   that   went   by 
There's  a  wrong  to  be  righted — a   sequel   to  come ; 

For  I'll   find   one,   or  both,  'fore   I   die! 
5* 


106  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

I   am   failing  of  late;    and  I'm  troubled  somewhat 
With   a   pain   near   this   bayonet-thrust. 

But   I'm  proud    of    my   scars;    why,    I'd   give   my 

left   arm 
To   save  the   Old   Flag  from   the   dust! 

Are   you  weeping    for    me  ?     Heaven     bless    you, 

my   friend ; 

But    I'm    glad   that    I've   caused   you   a   tear — 
When    you're   standing  up  yonder,  those  tears  may 

outweigh 
Half  the   sins   you've   committed   down  here. 


MAGDALENE. 

A   Sequel   to   "Odd  Joe^ 

WHY   do   the  people   stand  gazing  at   me  ? 

Some  jeer — others   pass   with   a   frown. 
It   seems   that   the  very   dogs  hush   where   I   go — 

Is   poverty   strange   in   the   town  ? 

Or   do   my   worn   features   reveal  my  past  life — 
Can  they  read  my  sad  history  there  ? 

Ah,  me !      Had  they  known   me  in   happier  days, 
I'd  think  it   no   wonder  they  stare ! 

There   wasn't   a  happier  home   in   the  land — 
Ah !    why  for  that   man   did   I   fall  ? 

A  few   fleeting  months — then   he  cast  me  away — 
He  sacrificed  naught — I  lost  all. 


108  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

It's    the   way    of    the    world — I    alone    bear    the 
blame 

For  the  blight  of  my  life   in   its   prime; 
Yet  it   seems  that  the  misery  I  have   endured 

Might  almost  atone   for  my  crime ! 

Poor    Joe !       I    have    followed    him    month    after 
month, 

Until  they  have  grown  into  years ; 
But  when   I  have  almost  the   courage  to   speak, 

My  tongue  is   chained   down   by  my  fears. 

My  child !  If  I  only  dared  speak  to  my  child — 
Just  to  press  one  kiss  on  her  brow — 

Poor  Nellie !  She  died  in  his  arms  long  ago — 
Ah,  well!  she  is  happier  now. 

Joe  doesn't  look  now   like  the  strong,  brave  man 

I  loved  ere   I   went   to   the   bad — 
Oh!     I    must    not    remember — my    brain     is    on 
fire — 

Oh,   horror !    If  I  should  go   mad ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  109 

*  *  *  *•  * 

How  lonely  I   am,  standing  here   in   the   night, 
In   the  presence  of  Conscience   and  God. 

Not    a    friend    have    I    now     in    the    dark,    wide 

world — 
Yes,   death!      There  is  rest   'neath  the  sod. 

How   mournful   the  sad  river  moans   at   my  feet, 
Rolling   on   to   its   grave   in   the   sea. 

One    plunge  —  what    a    thought! — 'neath   the  mur- 
muring waves 
Might   wash   out   my  past   misery ! 

They  say  'tis   a  quick  and  a  painless  death — 
But   after  death  ?      Ah  !  who   can   tell  ? 

Oh!     it    cannot    be    worse    than    this    torture    of 

mind — 
I'll   do   it !      God  pardon  !      Farewell ! 


SMITHSONIAN    PARK    IN 
SPRING-TIME. 

THE  King  of  Light  mounts  to  his  Eastern  throne, 
Dispatching   pursuivants   with   gleaming  darts, 
Commanding  each  to  pierce  proud  JSTature's  heart, 
And  rouse  it   into   breathing,   throbbing  life. 
The   southern  breezes,   laden   with   perfume 
Of  Spring's   first   offerings,   invite   me   forth. 
I   heed   the   silent   call.      With   book   in   hand, 
I   sally  forth   to   walk   within   the   park — 
My  usual   haunt ;    and   there  I   learn   to   read 
The  teachings  of  our  God  from  JSTature's  book. 
The   sky  above  "is  one  vast  sheet  of  blue — 
A  blue   so   soft   and   delicate,   it   seems 
As  though  it   would   dissolve   before   the   sight. 
My  roving   eye   drops   from   the   sky  to   earth, 
And,  oh!  what  wondrous  beauties  greet  my  view  I 
The  graveled   walks  are   lined  with  shading  trees, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  Ill 

"Whose  leaning  branches   almost   kiss   the  ground. 
The  white  pine  proudly  heaves  its   verdant  breast, 
And    points    its     new-formed,    spear-like    buds    to 

Heav'n. 

The   tall   wild-cherry  stretches  forth   its   arms, 
And  waves  its  green-white  blossoms  to  the  breeze; 
And   when   the  fast-maturing  fruit   doth   cut 
The   blossoms  from  the   stem,  it   gently  drops 
The  withered  blooms  upon   the   sod   beneath. 
The   male   catalpa   showers   to   the   ground 
Its  purple,   bell-like  flowers,  making  earth 
Appear   an   em'rald   carpet   spangled   o'er 
"With   amethystine   gems  of  beauty  rare. 
Beside   low-growing  pines,   and   underneath 
Wide,  overhanging  boughs,  are  placed  rude  seats — 
Rude   wooden  benches   some,   and   others   formed 
Of  stakes   drove  down   into   the   solid  -earth 
Till   firmly   set,   with   wooden   plates   atop. 
To   one   of  these   my   footstep   leads,   and   here 
I   pause  to  gaze  upon  the  lovely  scene 
That,   like  a  living  panorama,  lies 
Within   my  view. 

Yon   haughty,   tow'ring   tree 
That  lifts   its   lordly   crest   as   if  to   top 


112  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The   very   clouds,  and   scarcely   deigns   to   tilt 

Its   slender  leaves   before   the   western   breeze, 

The  linden  is.      Majestical  it  stands, 

And  bends  its  head   alone   when   tempests   howl, 

And  blasts   of  fury,   by   the  hurricane 

Let    loose,     come    crashing    through     its     yielding 

boughs. 

And   even   then   it   hisses   forth   its   scorn, 
And  fierce,   sublime,   defiant,   casts  away 
The   tatters  rent   from   out  its   em'rald   robe, 
And   challenges   anew   the   angry  winds. 
And  yet,   proud   as   thou   art,   thou,   too,    canst  be 
As  gentle   as  the   Summer-evening  breeze, 
When  all  around  is  gentle,   as   'tis   now. 

I  turn   my  gaze   away   from   yonder   tree, 

To    watch    two    light-winged     birds     who     flutter 

near. 
With    merry    chirp,   they    leave    the    branch    o'er- 

head, 

And  swiftly  dart  down  to  the  ground;   then  steal, 
With   cautious   step,    toward   me,   pausing   oft, 
With  foot   uplifted   high,   and   tiny   heads 
Bent   either   side,   in   comic   watchfulness. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  113 

The   boldest,  with  inquiring  chirp,   usurps 
One   half'  my  rustic   bench ;    but   startled  at, 
Perchance   its   own   temerity,   it  flies 
In  haste   away,  and  keeps  at   distance  safe. 
Chirp   on,   ye   dainty  harbingers   of  Heav'n, 
I  would  not   harm   ye  for  Golconda's  wealth. 

How  deep   the   solitude   seems  here,  compared 
"With   busy,  noisy  life   beyond   these   gates. 
A  dreamy  quiet   hangs   upon   the   air, 
Unbroken,  save   by  sighing   winds   among 
The  quiv'ring  aspen-leaves.       Yet   faintly   comes, 
At  times,  the   smothered   din  of  busy  life 
Within   the  city's  pale ;    and   thro'   the   trees 
The   city's   turrets   brightly  glow,  beneath 
A   flood   of  golden   light. 

Oh!   how  I   love 

To   lie  upon   the   soft,  green   earth,  beneath 
The   overhanging   boughs,  and   dream    away 
The   morning-hours   in   meditative  muse, 
With  just  the  faintest  knowledge  that  the  world — 
The   noisy,   striving   world   without — exists ! 


WAITING    FOR    ANOTHER 
KISS. 

How  fondly   I  recall,  sweet   one, 

That   June-soft  summer  night 
We  sat  together  in   the   lane, 

Beneath   the   mellow   light 

That  glinted  all  the  leafy  boughs 

Which  quivered  overhead, 
And  o'er   thy .  lustrous,   waving  hair 

A  veil   of  silver  spread. 

Light  zephyrs,   from   the   distant   wood, 

Came,  laden   with  perfume 
Fresh   caught   from   flow'rs   that   sought,   in 
vain, 

To  rival   thy   rich  bloom. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  115 

The  velvet  grass,   all  dotted   o'er 

With   drops  of  diamond   dew, 
Reflected  twinkling  stars   who  peep'd 

From  out  their  home  of  blue. 

But  brighter  were  thy  sparkling  eyes 

A  thousand  times  to  me; 
And  sweeter  far  the  loving  kiss 

I  there    received  from   thee, 

Than   perfume   of  a   wilderness 

Of  flowers    all    in    bloom — 
Thy    honeyed  breath   far    sweeter   than 

Arabia's   rich   perfume. 

I'm    standing   by    the   rustic   seat, 

Beyond    the  orchard-stile; 
I'm    waiting  for   thy   regal   step. 

The   sunlight   of  thy   smile. 

The   sun    has   gone    behind    the   hills, 

But  left   a   band   of  light 
Across   the   cloudless  western    sky, 

To   keep   at   bay  the   night. 


116  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The    evening   dews   are    falling   fast, 
The   birds   have  gone   to   sleep ; 

Yet   still   beside    our    trysting-place 
My   earnest   watch    I    keep. 

Oh !    do   not   tarry   longer !    Fly 
On  wings  of  love  to   me — 

I'm    watching,  waiting,  dear    one,  for 
Another  kiss  from   thee. 


A    QUANDARY. 

I'D  give  a  world   could  I  but  know 

If  e'er  she  thinks  of  me ; 
Or  if  her   love   be   all   for  him, 

Or   if  her  heart   be   free. 
She   trembles   when  I  take   her  hand, 

The   crimson   comes  and   goes 
Upon   her   cheek,  like   sunny  rays 

Upon   the   Summer-rose. 

And   yet   she   oft   coquets   with   him, 

And   he,  of  course,  with   her ; 
While   I,   poor  martyr   to   my  love, 

Dare  not  a  word  demur. 
I   wonder   would   she   love   me   more 

If  I  had  wealth   and   fame? 
If  she   were   poor,  I   know   that   I 

"Would   love   her  all   the  same. 


118  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Sometimes  she  sweetly  smiles,  and   then 

My  heart   is   all   ablaze. 
Ah!    who  could   keep   from   loving   her 

TVho   has   such  winning   ways? 
And  yet   she  just   as  sweetly  smiles 

On    him,  when   he   is   near, 
And  then   my  heart   is  ice  again — 

She  loves   him   most,   I   fear ! 


What  shall  I  do   to    win   her  love, 

Or  end   this  fearful   strife  ? 
Shall  I  begin  to  tear  my  hair, 

And   vow   to   end   my  life, 
By  plunging  madly  from   the   dome 

Of  our  great   capitol  ? 
No — that  would  leave  the  field  to  him, 

And   that   would   cap-it-all. 

You   see  I'm  in  a  deuced   fix! 

I  know  not  what  to  do 
To  rid  me  of  this  constant   pain 

That  gnaws  my  heart;   do   you? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

I'll  go   at   once  and   ask  her  if 
She  loves  me?      And  if  "No!" 

I   think   the   best   thing   I    can   do 
Is — just  to  let   her  go ! 


110 


SKATING    PLEASURES. 

THEEE  is  nothing   so  pretty  in  all   the  wide  world 

As   a  beautiful   girl   on   the   ice — 
Though   any  maid  robed  in   a   skating   costume, 

Of  course,   must  look  pretty  and   nice. 
How   smoothly   she  glides   o'er  the   silvery   sheen, 

And  gracefully   bends   to   and  fro, 
With   a   motion   as   light   as   the   dip    of  a   bird, 

Her   bright   eyes   and  cheeks   all   aglow. 


And   if  it   should  happen  to  be   her  first  trial, 

How   confiding   she  leans   on   your  arm ; 
While  the  ripple  of  water  is  music  less  sweet 

Than   her    sharp   little    shrieks    of  alarm. 
How   delightful   to   pick   the   dear   little   one    up, 

Just   after   each    comical   tumble — 
So   gratefully   smiling,    provokingly   sweet, 

That   your   heart   will   be   all   in   a  jumble. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  121 

A   skating-pond,  too,  on   a   clear,   stilly   night, 

With   the   merry   stars   twinkling    above, 
And    the   moon    looking    down    with   encouraging 
smile, 

Is    an    excellent   place  to   make   Jove. 
For  example,  she   calls  you   a   "  darling   gallant ; 

What   a  trouble   to   you   she   must   be ! " 
Then   whisper,  you'd    "think   it   no   trouble  at   all 

To  be   troubled   for   life."    Do   you    see? 

Then  there  is  the  lacing  and  unlacing  skates, 

And  thousands  of  other  delights; 
Besides  the  walk  home,    with   the   angelic  one 

In   the   dim   of  the  star-lighted  nights. 
And  then  when   you    bid    her    good-night   at   the 
door, 

Sweet  words  you  can   breathe  in  her   ear — 
[f  I   didn't  love  Summer,  I  almost   could  wish 

That   skating   would  last  all  the  year. 
6 


IS   IT  WRONG  TO   KISS? 

THE    frolicsome    waves    love    to    kiss    the     white 
sand, 

The  zephyrs   salute   the  green   trees ; 
The  golden   sunbeams  kiss  the   beautiful   rose 

As  it  blushingly  nods   to  the  breeze. 

The  daisy — most  lowly  and  modest  of  flowers — 
Receives   a  night-kiss  from   the  dew, 

And  the  winds    touch    the  lips  of   the   "  emblem 

of  love"- 
The  violet,   of  purple  and  blue. 

The  silvery  moonbeams   salute  the  hill-tops, 
The  hill-shadows  kiss   the   blue   sea; 

And    the   bright    little    waves    dance,    caper,    and 

sing, 
For  a  star-kiss   from   over  the  lea. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  123 

The  tear-drops  of  heaven   fall  gently  to   earth 
To  kiss   the  green   grass ;    and   in   May 

The   buds   burst  their  tendrils  in  joy  to   receive 
A  kiss  from   the   Ruler  of  Day. 

The    birds    kiss     each    other    and    twitter    good- 
night, 

The   clouds  kiss  the  mist  on  the  hill ; 
The  grape-vine  embraces   the  old   cherry-tree, 

And  the  pebbles   are  kissed  by  the  rill. 

The   ivy-vine   clambers  the   moss-covered  wall 

To  get  the   first   sip  of  the   dew — 
If  Nature,   then,    seems   only  born   to   be  kissed, 

I   don't  think  it  wrong,  love.      Do   you  ? 


MODERN    WEDDING-RITES. 


thou  take   this  brown-stone  front, 

These   carriages  —  this   diamond, 
To  be  the  husband  of  thy  choice, 

Fast  locked  in   bonds  of  Hymen? 
And   wi]t   thou  leave   thy  home   and  friends 

To  be   his  loving  wife  ? 
And   help   to   spend  his   large   income 

So  long  as   thou   hast   life  ?  " 

"I   will!"   the  modest   maid  replies, 
The  love-light   beaming  in   her  eyes. 

"And   wilt  thou   take   this   waterfall, 

This  ostentatious  pride, 
And  all  these  unpaid  milliners'   bills, 

To  be  thy  chosen  bride  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  125 

And  wilt  thou  love  and   cherish  her 
While  thou  hast  life  and  health; 

But  die  as   soon   as  possible, 

And  leave  her  all   thy  wealth  ? " 

"  I  will ! "   the  fearless  swain   replies, 
And   eager  waits  the  nuptial-ties. 

"  Then   I  pronounce   you   man   and   wife ; 

And   whom   I've  joined   forever, 
The   next   best   man   may  disunite, 

And   the   first  Divorce   Court  sever." 


A    CHILD'S    LOGIC. 

A  BABY  girl  knelt  down  to  pray 
One  morn.  The  mother  said : 

"  My  love,  why  do  we  ever  say, 
'  Give  us  our  daily  bread  ? ' — 


"  "Why   ask  not  for  a  week   or  more  ?" 

The   baby  bent  her  head 
In  thoughtful   mood  toward  the   floor — 

"  We   want  it  fresh  !  "   she  said. 


AFTER    THE    PLAY. 

DROP  the  curtain — let's  away, 
The  scene  of  mimic-life  is  done; 

Joy  to  the  hero  of  the  play, 
The  villain's  race  is  run. 

Put   out  the  lights,   and  close  the  book, 
And   hide   it  in   its   usual   nook; 
The  players  need   its   aid  no   more — 
Their  hour  of  toil  is  o'er. 


Yes,  drop   the   curtain — let   them  go, 
And   doff  their  gaudy   stage   array ; 

The  flashing  gems  would   scarcely  show 
Against  the   light   of  day. 


128  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Some  brief  applause  they  may  have  gained, 
By  mirth-provoking  look  or  word ; 

What  care  we  that  the  mirth  was  feigned? 
The  heart  may  cry  unheard. 

Ah,  well !    the   cheer  the  world  may  give 
Are  flowers   strewn  along  their  way ; 

Oh !    may  the  memory  ever  live 
To   soothe   their   darkest   day. 


THE    FEVER   DREAM. 


THE  FEVER  DREAM. 

A   SONG-CYCLE. 


PROLOGUE. 

THE  poet  writhed  upon  his  bed 

In   agony  of  pain — 
Through  all  his  frame   a  fever   sped 

That   seemed  to   sear  his   brain. 
He  grasped  the   cup   of  agony 

And   drained  it   to  the  lees, 
And  when   the  fever  ebbed  away 

His  life  began   to  freeze. 
An   Angel   swept  the  pain  away, 

And  soothed  him   on  her  breast; 
His   mind  forsook   the  earthy  clay— 

The   Dream  will   speak  the   rest. 


THE  DREAM.— CUPID'S  FOLLY. 

I. — DISCONTENT. 

YOUNG   Cupid   stood,  musing,  one   day  in   Heaven, 

Beneath   the   soft   shade   of  a   tree ; 
A   rivulet   laving   his   bare   little   feet, 

And  bright  flowers   brushing  his   knee. 

"I   am   idle   in   Heaven — there's   little   to   do — 

If  I   could  I  would   speedily  flee  it. 
'Tis  whispered   in   Heaven,  a   new  world  is   built; 

And,   oh  !   I   am   longing   to   see   it ! 
I'll   spin   me   a  rope,  and   I'll   braid   it  of  gold — " 

And   his   cunning   eye   twinkled  with  mirth — 
"And   I'll  wheedle   St.  Peter   to   open   the   gate, 

And   I'll   swing  myself  quickly  to   Earth ! " 


132  THE  FEVER  DREAM. 

Then  he   braided   a  rope,  and   a  girdle   he   spun, 

And  wrought   a  new  quiver   of  gold, 
And  sprinkled  it   over  with   violet   dew, 

And  filled  it  with   darts,  new  and   old ; 
And    he    caught    a    stray   sunbeam,    and    made    a 
new  bow; 

Then   his   cunning  eye   twinkled   with   mirth — 
"Now  I'll  wheedle   St.  Peter  to   open  the  gate, 

And  I'll   swing  myself  down  to   the  Earth!" 


II. — THE  REQUEST. 

"St.  Peter,  tell   me,  is   it   true 
A  new  world  has   been  built? 

I  long  to  see  it — let  me  through, 
And  ask  me  what  thou  wilt ! " 

"Begone,  young  sir!     Tempt  not   thy  fate 

I   may  not   let  thee   out — 
The  few  who   enter  by   this  gate 

Ne'er  wish   to   turn   about." 


THE  FEVER  DREAM.  133 

"I've  heard  it  is   a  world   most  rare; 

To  view  it,  oh  !   I   burn! 
Pray  set  the  golden   gate  ajar — 

One -look,  and   I'll  return." 

""What  hast  thou   'neath  thy  mantle,  sir?" 

St.  Peter  questioned   stern. 
"I  have  my  bow  and   quiver,  sir, 

And   darts   of  silver  fern. 

"I  have   this   cord   of  braided  gold, — 

I'll  fix  it   to   the   gate, 
And  when  thou   dost  the   door  unfold 

I'll   aid  thee  with  my  weight." 


III. — THE   FLIGHT. 

St.  Peter   slept, 

Young  Cupid  wept — 

In  vain  he   sought  the  key  the   keeper  kept. 

The  lock  was  turned; 

His  young  heart  yearned 

To   view  the  world  of   which   he  late  had  learn'd. 


134  THE  FEVER  DREAM. 

He  pulled  the  rope, 
But  could  not  hope 
To  make  the  mighty  golden  portal  ope. 


At  last  there   came   an   outward   stroke; 

Upon   the  air  of  Heaven  it  broke; 

St.   Peter  heard  the   sound   and   quickly   woke. 

"Who  knocks  so   late 

Upon  the  gate, — 
So  loud  and   oft,  as  though  ye   cannot  wait  ? " 


Then   Cupid  grasp'd  his  braided  rope, 
And  when  the  massive  gate   did  ope, 
His   eye  shone  bright   with   cunning  mirth, 
And   quick  he   swung   himself   to    Earth. 
But   as  he  fled   his  home   of   late 
His  mantle   clung  upon   the  gate. 
"So   much    the   better,"    Cupid   said; 
"I'm  freer   now   to    use   my   head." 


THE  FEVER  DREAM. 

IY. — MISCHIEF. 
Young   Cupid   flitted   o'er   the   mead, 

Across   the   orchard   lane ; 
The   hills   began   to   hide  the    sun, 

And    day  began   to   wane. 
A   maiden   sat  beneath  a  tree, 

Beneath  the   blossoms   sweet, 
And   Cupid   shook   the  blossoms  down 

About   her   pretty   feet. 

He   threw   a   dart, 
It   struck   her   heart, 

She    writhed  in    agony; 
He   drew   the   dart 
From  out  her  heart, 

And   laughed   in  merry  glee. 

"  I'll    come   again 
To  heal  the  pain, 

And  rhyme   thee  love  with   dove ; 
I   go   away, 
Am    gone   a   day, 

And  bring  thee  love  for  love." 


136  THE  FEVER  DREAM. 

V. — REPARATION. 

A  youth,   made  brown  with  ceaseless  moil, 

Slow   trod   behind  the  plow, 
With   crystal  beads   of   honest   toil 

Slow   dripping  from  his  brow. 
And   as   he  trod 
The  mellow  sod, 

A   merry  song   he   sung ; 
His  heart  was  light, 
His   eye   was   bright, 

Care  to   the   wind  he  flung. 

Then  Cupid  raised   a   naming  dart, 

And  held  it  high   aloft. 
In   sweet  perfumes 
Of   apple-blooms 

He  dipt  it  once  and  oft. 
He   threw  the   dart, 
It  pierced  his  heart, 

He  writhed  in   agony ; 
He  drew   the  dart 
From    out   his  heart, 

And   laughed   in   merry   glee. 


THE  FEVER  DREAM. 

He  lured  him  to  the  maiden's   side, 
And  gave  her  to   him  for  his  bride. 
Her  eye  became 
A  living  flame, 

A  sun-kissed  drop  of   dew; 
He  brought   a  love 
That  rhymed  with  dove, 

And  far  away  he  flew. 


VI. — REMORSE. 

Young   Cupid   lay   upon   a   mound, 

Among  the   waving  hollies ; 
And,    prone   upon   the   dewy   ground, 

Bewailed  his   wanton   follies. 
The  night  was   dark, 
And  not  a  spark 

Shone  from   the   gloomy   sky; 
The  wind  was   chill, 
And   whistled   shrill, 

Like   wail   of  infant    cry. 


138  THE  FEVER  DREAM. 

Young   Cupid  mourned  his  mantle  lost ; 
His   hair  upon  the   breeze  was   tost ; 
The  frosty   dew 
Upon   him  grew, 

And   turned  his  limbs  a  purple  hue. 

Then   Cupid   started  from  the   ground, 

And   stood  among  the  hollies, 
And   stamped  his  foot  upon  the  mound, 

And   said :    "  I'll  mend  my  follies  ! 
I'll   straight  return  to  Peter's  gate, 

And   ne'er  again   offend ; 
For,   though   I've   learned  my   folly   late, 

'Tis  ne'er  too  late  to   mend!" 


VII. — HUMILIATION. 

"St.   Peter,   ope  the  gate  again, 

And  hearken  to   my  tale   of  pain : 

My  wings   are  wet  with  misty   rain, 

My   limbs   are  chill, 

The  wind  blows  shrill; 

I   bow   me  to   thy  wiser  will. 


THE  FEVER  DREAM.  139 

Pray  ope   the  door ! 

My  folly  o'er, 

The  truant  I  will  be  no  more." 

"Who  prays  to   enter  here  so  late — 
And  knocks  so  timid  on  the  gate? 
The  keeper  hath  no   need   be   proud — 
If  you   have   right,    knock   bold   and  loud*1' 

St.   Peter  turned  the  golden   lock, 

And  sprang   the   bolt   with   mighty   shock. 

He  girded   tight  his   golden   belt; 

And   swung   the   gate    apart ; 
And   on   the   threshold    Cupid    knelt, 

With   ne'er   a    bow   or    dart. 


VIII. — THE  DECREE. 

"St.   Peter,   let  me   in,   I  pray; 

I    come   in   deep   repentance." 
"Young   Cupid,   iise    and   haste    away, 

I   cannot    change   thy  sentence! 


140  THE  FEVER  DREAM. 

Thou  hast   committed   grievous    sin — 

A   crime   ne'er  done   by   mortal — 
Therefore,  thou   must   not   come    within 

The    shadow    of  this   portal 
Until    thy   sin    thou  hast   atoned, 

And    true   repentance   proved. 
Thy   name    will   ne'er    in   Heaven  be   owned 

Till    all    the  world   hath    loved! 

"  Go,  seek   again   thy  golden   bow, 

And   find   thy  truant  dart ; 
And  wander  ever   to    and   fro, 

And    pierce    each   mortal  heart. 

"To   roam   for  ages    be  thy   lot 

Thus  naked   through   the   world    below; 

But   heat  or   cold    shall    harm   thee   not, 
Or   ever   warp    thy   dart,   or  bow. 

This  be   thy   comfort   in   thy  fall : 

Thy  will  is   law — Love   conquers  all!" 

St.  Peter  closed   the  golden   gate, 
And  left  young   Cupid   to  his  fate. 


THE  FEVER  DREAM.  141 

"  My    sin  hath  fall'n   upon   my  head ; 
My  punishment  is  just,"   he   said. 
But   as   he   took   his  Earthward   flight, 
He  vowed  to   be   a  merry  wight; 
And   speedily  his  power  prove, 
And  quickly  bring  the  world  to  love. 
And  if  his  power  failed  with  any, 
Then  many  should  love  one — one  many. 


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